What I Have
I have one bra that fits, at least of the kind I can wear to work or out to dinner. I’m not talking about the kind I love to wear in the summer—a sports bra that goes under a tank top and over a pair of running shorts: three pieces of clothing, so easy. And the best part of summer—not having to worry about clothes or wear too many of them. And no more clunky “feet prisons.” (Some people call these shoes.)
My one good bra, black and lacy, exemplifies so much of what it means to be female. Bras have to be and do so much, have to be beautiful and functional, have to show enough but not too much, have to spend days ferrying things around. While a daily, practical necessity, they are also appropriated for all manner of sexual duties—advertising, fantasy, foreplay. They should always be fun, even after a long day. They don’t have it easy, and neither do we. But the power they/we have: to do it all, to hold it all, to endure.
Would I want to be anything other than I am, with my overwhelming, messy life and one bra that fits? I don’t think so.