I hate brassieres and other corporal
restraints. No, it is not just because the word brassiere sounds a lot
like brazier—which always makes me think of chest meat slow cooking to
tender discomfort—but also because brassieres have a you-hate-me-so-I-shall-torture-you
relationship with most of the nerves in my back.
the universe in all her wisdom and hunger for balance found it proper to bless
my chest with forever 16-year-old boobs. Until I started dancing with my 40s. After
that, fate and (one of her cancer goons) trapped me in a dark alley, and loud-whispered
in my face, “Your life or your double-boobness, dearie. Which will it
my life and a boob. No, my hatred of brassieres wasn’t reduced by half. It was increased
by gazillions, in the sports bra department: good uni-boob support is just so
freaking hard to find.
for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #38: A Helping String, where Rommy asks us to write while thinking of “things meant only as a temporary or hidden support.”).