I have had a love-hate-endure relationship with my bra for many years. I loved my bra as an overly well-endowed adolescent; my bra, in the multiple models that I tried on in the privacy of the dressing room, allowed me to try to hide myself like an older Judy Garland trying to play a childish Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.
Of course, my dressing room experiences only seemed private. On the other side of the thin green dressing room curtain, I would hear my mother discussing my breasts with the sales clerk: "Oh, do you have something called a minimizer? That would be ideal for the poor dear. She seems to have inherited my mother's big floppy bosoms, not mine," my petite mother would sigh, making me feel like a freak in a circus rather than Dorothy dancing nimbly on the Yellow Brick Road.
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I hated my bra in my teens and 20s because the straps tended to peer out at the world just when I wanted them to stay hidden (like on my infamous New Year's Eve date with Stoner Dave -- but that's another story that will never be told. We specialize in those closeted tales in my mother's family.).
And now, well, I endure the straps that -- no matter how expensive the bra -- always cut into my shoulders. So when a tall, slim and self-assured personal fitness trainer at my local gym informed me that my "Bounce-Free-Guaranteed" sports bra was regarded as "an unnecessary restraint" these days, I felt like the bee-bop chicks in Grease chanting, "Tell me more, tell me more."
"Absolutely. Bras are just SO unnecessary," said Cindy (who was so fat-phobic that she boasted that it took her an hour to shop for one can of bottled salad dressing).
For one day, I took her advice and went without a bra. At the gym, my breasts flopped awkwardly as I attempted to work out on the StairMaster without hunching over. I tried to lie down on one of the leg weight machines and couldn't figure out how to, ahem, recline without looking as if I were an advertisement for a plastic surgeon's breast reduction operations.
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