What I Learned From National Geographic

Someday I’m going to burn my bra. Not because I’m  a belated feminist. The only statement I want to make is, “BRA I HATE YOU!”

I have hated every bra I ever owned.  They cost too much. They never really do “lift and separate” like they claim. Or if they do lift and separate, they seem more like a straight jacket or some torture device, instead of something to make me more feminine.  As if something made of spandex and nylon could make me more me.   

Then , of course, if the cup fits, the straps fall down. If the straps fit, the elastic part around you cuts you in two.  Or makes ridges in your shoulders. And if you find one that fits in all areas, the company stops making it by the time you need a new one.  They show too much or look like those high way cones under your T-shirt. Or you wobble like jello as you walk down the street.

It’s not gauche anymore for your straps to show. But I’ll never get used to it. Even if I spent a small fortune for  pretty colored bras so my straps could show with flair .

I always kind of admired the cultures where women only had to wear skirts. Where they weren’t  jabbed by under wires, or chaffed by elastic, or had to keep shoving straps back under their shirts.  Where they weren’t held hostage by Victoria’s Secret or Playtex. Where they didn’t hang on Oprah’s every word about  fit and then feel incomplete if they didn’t make a pilgrimage to the right boutique to pay a million dollars for THE bra.

I always secretly thought it was nice that the “girls” could swing in the wind in those National Geographic pictures. Should would feel better. Don’t you think? 

Even me, nonconformist that I am, will not get rid of my bras anytime soon. I have dispensed with stockings and heels for the sake of comfort. But I probably will always wear a bra. 

But I just had to rant a little. Get it off my chest, you know?

So