Braless And Flawless
A quick way for me to have an existential crisis is to think about why I have to wear a bra every day and guys don’t. We all have nipples, so why do I have to hide mine? Is this a male gaze thing? Who even decided women’s nipples weren’t safe for public viewing? What are bras’ true value to society? I have so many questions.
If wearing a bra has to do with keeping men’s minds off our nipples, let me tell you something: I find men’s arms more of a menace to society than me freeboobing around my neighborhood. Have you seen some basketball players lately? Or may I direct you towards my favorite country singer that I hate to love, Sam Hunt? It’s like they’ve been sculpted by Michelangelo as real-life Davids to grace our basketball courts and concert venues for ladies to lust over. I have to obscure my nipples in public, but they get to walk around without a care in the world in tight shirts — or no shirt at all.
No one is telling Blake Griffin to shield his arms of steel from the wanton eyes of women. In an alternate universe, these #bicepblessed guys wouldn’t just have to cover up to keep everyone from catching sight of the topography of their arms. They would have to wear Forrest Gump-style braces over those muscles before wrapping thick, not-so-breathable fabric around them.
I’m not going to lie. My Free the Nipple campaign is a bit selfish. I just really love my boobs — yes, I call them boobs and nothing else. Like anyone, my body confidence constantly wavers. Even on my most blah days when I contemplate the benefits of a juice cleanse or taking up running, I just look at myself in the mirror and remind myself how perfect my boobs are for my little nugget body.
Plus bras are just a huge invasion of my comfort. I prefer to spend as much time as I possibly can outside of the confines of one. I’m much less likely to suffer from heat stroke during summer sans brassiere, my favorite dresses and crop tops look better without pesky straps, and I generally feel more comfortable without two wires cradling my chest in a death grip.
Here’s the thing: My boobs definitely aren’t the kind that people would say I can get away with without a bra. (Whatever that means.) My sisters say I’m delusional to think I can. But I’m fully aware of my chest situation. I know what my boobs are capable of with or without a bra strapped on them.
My visible nipples through a shirt or dress haven’t hurt anyone, but I may have helped a guy fail a class in college because he paid more attention to my push up bra-induced cleavage than the professor. (Stupid, long story, but it was a bad game of how long could I catch him staring for.) In a braless state, the worse things my boobs can do are jiggle to new zip codes when I’m going up the stairs or peek out the sides of tank tops in hopes of making side boob a credible thing.
Despite this all, my mother still insists that I wear a bra at the dinner table when I’m home.
