The idea of a bra always seemed mystifying. From the moment I started puberty, my collection consisted of only sports bras and camisoles, wearing smalls instead of 32As. I skipped the bra chapter in “The Care and Keeping of You.” I changed the subject whenever my friends brought up the topic during middle school.
It didn’t help that things came much later for me than my peers. I saw all of my friends sprouting taller than me, talking about tampons, and texting boys. Life went from playdates to hang-outs, sharing to keeping secrets, apple juice to Frappucinos. I was a late bloomer in a physical and emotional sense, always feeling out of the loop.
Wearing a bra seemed like such an illustrious concept — something reserved for only grown people, a Secret that only Victoria could know. And whether it was the culture of embarrassment promoted by 12 year-old tweens or my own deep-rooted insecurities about being a late bloomer, I never felt the need to learn my actual measurements.
I wouldn’t go as far to say I was robbed of such a monumental part of adolescence. But isn’t it interesting how being a “late bloomer” affected me? How the concept of puberty plagued my self-perception, just because my body didn’t follow the typical time table of development. All of the sudden, life kicks off and you spend the rest of it struggling to keep up.
I lived with that same mentality until my birthday last October. A friend had gifted me a Victoria’s Secret card, a more mature birthday present than what I was used to. Everyone oohed and awed at the present, expressing desire for what they called “bra money.” I thanked my friend profusely for the thoughtful gift, but deep down I couldn’t help but think, “I don’t know how to use this.”
At that moment, I felt my life rapidly begin to pick up speed. Being in my second year of college, living in my first apartment, turning 19, for the first time I was being treated like a grown-up. And in my head, the one thing preventing me from fully entering adulthood was gaining a new form of support: breast support.
I made it a personal goal to put my gift card to use and finally learn my bra size. At this point, my insecurity manifested into a tangible form of embarrassment. In my mind, not knowing my bra size was no longer a quirky form of self-deprecation. It was now a sign of ignorance and lack of maturity on my end.
Yet, I was scared. I had avoided getting measured over fear of not being deserving enough for an adult bra. But approximately seven years overdue for a first fitting, was I too late to the party? Instead of not being old enough, was I now too old to be doing this for the first time?
These fears followed me to the mall in my hometown, where I stood clueless in rows and rows of lingerie. I was home for President’s Day Weekend, and I made the executive decision to grow up and get fitted. Asking my mom to come with me was slightly awkward, both of us knowing that I was well over the normal age when someone learns their bra size. But while I was very well old enough to do this myself, it seemed like something my mom should be there for. Like a rite of passage, just a little bit later.
I worked up the confidence to ask a Victoria’s Secret worker to get measured, and I followed her into the dressing room. We looked approximately the same age, yet I felt years younger than her. As she measured me, she went on about what each number and letter meant and how to find the “perfect fit.” I nodded with confusion and smiled with discomfort.
She then left me alone to try on what she picked for me. Standing in the mall dressing room surrounded by bras of varying sizes with my mom sitting right outside, I was ready to be struck with an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia for something I never experienced. I imagined the questions that would flood into my head: Is this what it was like for my friends in middle school? Is this the quintessential tween event I missed out on?
But if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t really feel anything. Wearing my first number-letter sized bra didn’t evoke some crazy emotion or unlock the secret to adulthood. I walked in and out of the Victoria’s Secret feeling nothing but a little more knowledgeable. It’s not about the bra, it’s more about the journey.
Here’s the best part: I still don’t wear a typical bra. I stick with my sports bras and bralettes, or just go bra-less. The gift card remains unused in my wallet. I technically found the “perfect fit,” but I am yet to purchase one.
If you ask me, there is no such thing as a “perfect fit.” The truth is, it’s pretty hard to forget you’re wearing one. For some bra-wearing people, it can represent more than just an undergarment. It’s a continuous reminder of your self, your growth, your journey.
And when you think about it, there’s no such thing as a perfect journey. I used to get so caught up on my bra-less adolescence, I didn’t realize that the process of growing up varies person-to-person. It’s such a personal experience, individually tailored and not meant to be compared to others. If I were to go back in time to my 12 year-old self, I would tell her, “Don’t sweat it. A bra is just a bra.”