Anywhere.
So my only bra-wearing days are if I have some sort of athletic activity, which is rarely—and sometimes not even then, depending on the bounce factor. For example, I don’t wear a bra when I’m bicycle-riding anymore. There’s no bouncing except when you crash, which loyal readers will know I have done on occasion.
Like, seven occasions.
But lately I’ve remained remarkably upright, and even the disgusting sight of me riding a bicycle braless is one that nobody has to take in for too long, as we race past each other.
They’re doing the racing, not me.
I’m just riding around without a bra.
Woo hoo!
I like to feel the wind in my nipple hair.
Otherwise I’m wearing a helmet.
Just not on my breasts.
Anyway, the reason I’m thinking about bras lately is that, as you may recall, I started taking yoga. And despite my earlier whining, I’m really starting to enjoy it. Of course I haven’t lost a single pound, but my back doesn’t hurt anymore, so I’ve stopped wearing my Thermacare patches, always a lovely fashion accessory.
I know, you’re probably thinking that I should wear Thermacare patches on my breasts.
Wait, what?
You weren’t thinking that?
Sorry.
Anyway, to stay on point, I’ve been wearing my old white sports bra to yoga but I’m starting to wonder why. Every time I reach up to start our Sun Salutations, my bra salutes the sun before I do. Same thing happens when we do Goddess Pose, more Godawful than Goddess. So the last time we went into Full Cobra, I went full cobra on my bra—and managed to slip it off underneath my shirt when everybody else was in Downward Dog.
Arf!
Yay!
It’s all women in the class, and nobody noticed. Or if they did, they wanted to do the same thing.
So then, just when I had my no-bra-in-yoga breakthrough, I read online that the VP of Design at Under Armour said that, “Gone are those ugly, shapeless sports bras that are the feminine version of jockstraps.”
Which is exactly what I own, but never mind.
When I first read the sentence I was excited, because I thought that she was going to say that we should all take our bras off.
But I was wrong.
Instead she said, “Women want fashion elements like fun colors, prints and detailing.”
We do?
I’d love detailing on my car, but on a sports bra, I’m okay with girl jockstrap.
But again, I was wrong.
The VP continued, “That’s where the back detailing comes in. You need the front to be relatively around the same form so that it does its job and doesn’t expose the girls…”
Okay, can we just stop there a moment? Breasts aren’t girls. Girls have breasts. I took AP Bio, so I know.
The VP continued, “… so the back is really the only spot on the bra where you can have a little fun. It’s all about the back!”
Which would explain why all of the new sports bras have more back straps than a parachute. But to me it seems more restrictive, not less, and it makes no sense to have straps in back, where your breasts are not.
Again, AP bio.
Ask me anything.
Fallopian tubes look like moose antlers.
I’m a font of reproductive wisdom.
Plus, who wants a sports bra with back straps that divide your back fat like a pizza?
Also quoted in the article was the chief retail analyst at the NPD Group, who said: “What you used to do was hide your underwear. Now it’s no longer underwear, it’s outerwear and you’re being judged by it.”
So for that, I have a solution.
No underwear.
On Guyatus
Francesca
I’m on a hiatus from men, a guyatus, if you will.
I’m taking a break from the man-hunt to focus on my writing and certain professional goals, maybe three to six months to finish revisions to my novel.
I was single before I decided to make it official, but the intentionality of it was so freeing.
It meant giving myself a break from feeling guilty for turning down a party invite just because some single guys might be there.
It meant taking the daunting task of making an OK Cupid, Hinge, and Match.com profile off my plate.
It meant giving myself over to the universe. If a great man fell into my lap in some stroke of Rom-Com serendipity, I’d be open to it.
But until then, I have work to do.
No biggie, right?
That’s what I thought.
But I can tell I’m freaking people out. It’s as if I’m swearing off men for life.
A family friend learned I was single and asked, “So, you’re seeking male companionship?”
Such quaint, pre-Craigslist skeeziness in that phrase.
“I’m single, but I’m not actively looking at the moment.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how old are you?”
“Thirty.” Thirty years younger than you.
She flared her eyes at me.
I tried not to roll mine.
Sometimes it gets to me. An older woman whose career I really admired admonished me, “You girls need to apply the same ambition and focus to finding a husband as you do to your careers. Otherwise, you wake up at thirty-five, and it’s too late.”
It broke my heart a little. Not that I was blowing my husband chances, but that a woman who built a successful career and family over decades thought thirty-five was too late for anything.
I suppose I understand this perspective from older women—they grew up in a different time! But when women my age do it to me, it bums me out.
I was at a childhood friend’s bridal shower, seated with her law-school friends, nearly all of whom were engaged or married. Somehow it came up that I was single, and the very next question was: “What are you on?”
I frowned in confusion, not realizing the correct answer was: not enough drugs to get this party going.
She clarified. “I mean, what apps?”
They have an app for drugs?
When I told her I wasn’t on any dating websites or apps, she looked appalled.
“You’re not doing anything?”
I lost my nerve. They succeeded in making me feel embarrassed about it, so I defaulted to my usual defense mechanism: humor. I launched into a one-woman show about all the terrible first dates I’ve been on, embellished here and there.
I killed. Had ’em rolling in the aisles.
Catching her breath, one girl exclaimed, “God, I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore. I mean, no offense.”
I smiled.
Turns out you can feel cheap even without a bad date!
I was mad at myself. I’m not ashamed of being single, I have a lot of great things going on in my life without a man, why couldn’t I own it?
Being single is a status, it’s not an urgent problem in need of remediation.
I say “I’m single,” and it’s like people hear, “I have a broken faucet.”
What are you going to do about it?
Have you looked online?
Can you call someone?
Sticking with my home analogy, being single should be like, “I have green shutters.”
Do you want green shutters forever?
Maybe, maybe not, but they’re all right for now.
When did finding love become a homework assignment?
Whatever happened to “You Can’t Hurry Love”?
I thought it was good not to try too hard.