My boobs were so happy during Covid. Yes, they were quarantined with me at home, but despite that confinement, they’d never felt so free since their pre-training bra adolescent days. Normally restrained by varying combinations of lycra and elastic, they could relax and breathe the sigh of relief normally reserved, in the pre-pandemic days, for the moment I crossed the threshold. Just after my shoes would come off to leave the outside world’s germs at the doorstep, I would release the double J-hooks even as I made my way up the stairs. And then, in a masterful and elegant move I learned by furtively watching my mother, I would remove the restrictive brassiere through the armholes of my shirts without actually taking off said shirt.
During the novel coronavirus’s grip on our liberty, the need to harness the girls all but vanished. A men’s Spyder cotton tank (that I buy in multiples in size small at Marshall’s) sufficed as an initial layer, more for comfort than modesty or style. The orbs enjoyed those carefree, relaxed days.
The Quest
Now, sadly, propriety requires that I corral them again in public. My pursuit of the right balance between support and comfort continues: A latter day Don Quixote in the Mancha of the lingerie section, I am on a quest for the perfect bra. It, like an albino tiger in the wilds of Asia, is elusive and brings great joy when found. As with its close clothing cousins, the perfect pair of jeans and the perfect bathing suit, I hoard them upon discovery. Who knows when I’ll find them again? What if the manufacturer discontinues the style? I buy them in white, black, beige, cream, ecru, sand, latte, mocha, wheat, buff, oatmeal… or whatever other euphemisms for bland, essential neutrals they can think up. And sometimes I even buy one in color or some outrageous Hawaiian pattern.
What makes a bra ideal? That will no doubt vary by person, but for me, it means one thing - as with so many things in life - balance. The right equilibrium between (as one might want in a relationship) between support and freedom. Not so snug that it cuts off circulation around my upper torso and causes the dreaded underboob sweat in hot weather. Not so lax that it allows for gaping gaps or strap slips. No underwire for me: those prison-like, albeit curved, steel bars hurt, and I hardly need that level of industrial uplift. Nor do I need fancy. No one has seen my undergarments in a while, and while I look forward to a day when I might wander into La Perla for allure over function, right now the bra must mimic good background music: you kind of know it’s there, but it doesn’t take center stage or distract you, but its absence would create a noticeable void. It should, like a good partner, cradle me gently but firmly, be low maintenance, and last a long time.
To Bra or Not to Bra?
There now exists a wide continuum of contraptions at which our Playtex-Living-Bra-wearing forebears would marvel. Sleep bras, stay-at-home bras, demi-bras, T shirt bras… they range from the barely veiled athletic bra to the full on padded, underwired armor.
I must assess, as Elaine Benes did on Seinfeld in regards to whether or not a date was “spongeworthy,” each day’s “bra-worthiness.” How many people might I encounter and in what setting? If it’s very few in Trader Joe’s, comfort might triumph. I’d likely select a pretty formless, minimally supportive swath of stretchy fabric that affords the bare minimum of coverage. If I’m teaching a writing class of twelve, substantial straps and carefully contoured molded cups acknowledge the situation’s gravitas by making my breasts appear more formal and alert than they really are.
Yet even the most minimal amount of elastic confines my ribs and constricts my breath and circulation. I constantly tug, adjust, and rearrange the whole area regardless of which style I’ve selected. The boobs themselves might not mind being thus hoisted up, but the real estate just below them balks loudly and looks back wistfully on those halcyon plague days. They, like unleashed puppies, always feel happier unrestricted; they always want to bust (bad pun fully intended) out. I’m not hoping for another pandemic, but I cannot speak for my boobs. I was too young, and undeveloped, in the late sixties to jump on the bra-burning bandwagon. But if it rolled around today, I’d be on board.