Feeling My Breast
I’m not wearing a bra. Not that it’s a sailor-whistling scene, as a bouncy bosom and northward nipples I have not. However, my barely there double As are free at last, free at last. You see, I quit my job at the bank yesterday. Resigned. Turned in my giant, dangling, janitor-style key ring. Drove home. Scrubbed the cash cooties off my steering wheel. Took off my padded bra. Shoved it in the way back of my lingerie drawer. Smiled. Wide.
I’m not sure why I’ve always chosen to wear a padded bra to work. Maybe because work is always cold and it’s earmuffs for my boobies. Maybe because it’s a shield of armor for instances when others forget to take their nice pills. Maybe because I came of age watching Murphy Brown. She had padded shoulders. Certainly she had a padded bra under that smart polyblend blazer.
So here I am. Braless. Feeling my breast. My best. The soft moleskin of my navy blue Filson camp shirt feels yummy against my non-working-girl body. My little protest against social norms. I’ve never considered myself a feminist per se—a bit too theatrical and fanatical for my tastes—but damn, it feels good to be unhooked and uncupped.
It’s the feeling of freedom. The acceptance that lace has its place, but less is fabulous. The wink and nod to anyone who has fed the devouring bird of ambition only to admit that life is short. And quit. Just when things are looking up.
Perhaps the padded bra has been relegated to the mothballs for good. That’s not a decision for today or even for me to make. The omens always show me the way. And anyway, I’m busy looking up. It’s been awhile since I’ve watched the clouds float by.
(Written on the beach, overlooking the sea, a long time ago.)