Welcome To The Twilight Zone (Now With Extended Analogies About Puppies!)
I was in a play when I was younger (I was in plenty of plays, actually, I went to theatre school for 7 years, not to mention community theatre and backyard plays for the fam, plus SOS in university). The point is, I was in this particular play when I was younger.
I played Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was low-budget enough that it was actually no-budget, so we were responsible for making our own costumes. Our director looked at me and the guy playing Oberon and said 'I want you guys to wear something that makes you feel powerful.'
I was pretty sure he was insane at the time. I didn't get how clothes would make me feel powerful. I think I ended up in a red dress and heels. Possibly some jangly jewlery because I went through a pretty intense hippie phase. I remember our Oberon wore a cape. He also went onstage on opening night with his fly very visibly down. That's a different (more hilarious) story.
That was years back. So many years that I feel ancient for having thought about it. But I thought about it a lot today. About the idea of clothes making me feel powerful. I get what you meant now, crazy director man. I think the problem preventing me from getting it back then was my breasts. Specifically, the fact that they were an easily managed B cup.
Now here I am, years later, with a pair of wild and unruly D cups (or thereabouts). I'm not complaining about them, of course. I love my tits. They're pretty much totally rad. They just have a tendency to be out of control sometimes. Kind of like an excitable puppy. Kind of exactly like that, actually.
Sitting at home is cool, we can relax together with a book or a movie. Dinner can be tricky -- scraps that fall off my fork are claimed immediately. Bath time can be a nightmare especially when I use too much soap. It's like the whole shower turns into one big slippery death trap. Going for a run just exhausts everyone.
All of that is peanuts compared to meeting strangers for the first time. Excitement, anxiousness, sheer terror even. And so much prep to get ready. What if he doesn't like the puppy? Maybe he's just not a puppy person. Some people aren't. What if he likes the puppy, but doesn't want to pet the puppy? The puppy will be so disappointed. What if he's too rough with the puppy? Maybe he's never played with a puppy before and he's confused about what he needs to do? Oh fuck, what if the puppy hurts him and he sues? We'd have to get the puppy destroyed!
I think you get the analogy. I think the analogy maybe scared you. We also got dangerously off topic with that analogy.
I don't own any nice bras.
It's not because I don't want nice bras. It's not because I haven't looked for them. It's because they just don't exist.
I should add a short definition of 'nice bra' here. I'm not talking about something that just holds the girls in. I'm talking about something the holds everything in and makes me feel powerful at the same time. A bra that makes me feel sexy and confident. I know sexiness and confidence are supposed to come from the inside but damn a good outfit helps, right?
I go to the store sometimes, Walmart or Zellers or Sears or even La Senza or Victoria's Secret, and wander around looking at the undergarments. There are so many pretty bras, and cute ones and sexy ones. I found a really cute set today, two bras for the price of one. The first one was just a solid colour, blue pink, orange or white, and the second one was the same colour, but with little flowers printed on it. The largest size they had left was a B cup. And next to those was a black bra with Day-Glo hearts printed on it. The tag proclaimed that they glowed under black light. Awesome, right?! Someone linked me to a bra that had glow in the dark stegosauruses on it. Right up my alley and only came in an A cup.
None of those would remotely fit me. Most department or popular chain stores carry bras that at their largest are a whole cup size smaller than anything I would feasibly wear. My breasts, it would seem, are too large for mainstream society. I say it's because they're so full of joy about being alive. I have optimistic breasts. Cheerful, even.
Yeah, I can buy bras that fit at some of these stores, but they're the same kind my grandmother wears. You know the kind that come in the boxes? They're beige or cream or white and sometimes they have really hideous lace or little bows in the front. *gag* And they don't have any shape to them, all saggy and half the time they don't have under wire. I don't wear bras without under wire. I also don't wear bras that look like something a pioneer woman from the 1840's would have rejected for being too frumpy.
There's always plus size stores, right? Wrong, apparently, because my breasts are too small to be considered plus size. My breasts, it would also seem, are the freaking twilight zone.
I guess I could go to a specialty store. My mama actually took me to one once. It was so nice. They lady offered us coffee when we got there, and gave me a towel to dry my hair because it was pouring that day. I got a real, official fitting from a trained professional and she brought me pretty much anything I asked for. All of the bras were gorgeous and every single one of them was imported from either the UK or France, where they are not afraid of twilight zone breasts. Mama and I went halfsies on the single bra I chose (it was blue and had little 'C's on it with criss cross lace straps). My half came to 75$ before tax.
Not so very long ago, Katie and I ate a loaf of bread because between the two of us we could not afford to buy any food and we only had flour, salt and yeast in the house. I am too poor for imported bras at this point in my life.
But how can I go out and shake my groove thing if my undergarments make me feel old enough to break a hip? How am I ever going to work up the nerve to show off my fantastic rack if my bra isn't fabulous? You don't invite people to hang out at your house if the building is falling apart, do you? You don't host a dinner party on styrofoam plates, right? So why do I have to showcase some of my favourite bits with the equivalent of a styrofoam plate when some other girl who is just as fabulous as me except with slightly smaller or larger favourite bits gets a silver platter? That just seems unfair. It makes me sad. It makes the puppy sad. And styrofoam is bad for the environment.
And dammit, I feel bad enough about my thighs/belly/arms/man hands/overabundance of freckles/stretch marks/love handles/strange ear scar -- not to mention my emotional baggage. I love my breasts and I think everyone else should too. I would love to show them off, to invite And they deserve better than what these stores want to give them (or charge them for). Dammit, they deserve the very best. And so do I. Because everyone deserves to feel powerful and pretty and everyone deserves pretty things. Even poor students, people who live in smaller towns and nice girls who have weirdly sized breasts.
Me and my twilight zone chest will be over here if you want to make a formal apology, world.
I played Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was low-budget enough that it was actually no-budget, so we were responsible for making our own costumes. Our director looked at me and the guy playing Oberon and said 'I want you guys to wear something that makes you feel powerful.'
I was pretty sure he was insane at the time. I didn't get how clothes would make me feel powerful. I think I ended up in a red dress and heels. Possibly some jangly jewlery because I went through a pretty intense hippie phase. I remember our Oberon wore a cape. He also went onstage on opening night with his fly very visibly down. That's a different (more hilarious) story.
That was years back. So many years that I feel ancient for having thought about it. But I thought about it a lot today. About the idea of clothes making me feel powerful. I get what you meant now, crazy director man. I think the problem preventing me from getting it back then was my breasts. Specifically, the fact that they were an easily managed B cup.
Now here I am, years later, with a pair of wild and unruly D cups (or thereabouts). I'm not complaining about them, of course. I love my tits. They're pretty much totally rad. They just have a tendency to be out of control sometimes. Kind of like an excitable puppy. Kind of exactly like that, actually.
Sitting at home is cool, we can relax together with a book or a movie. Dinner can be tricky -- scraps that fall off my fork are claimed immediately. Bath time can be a nightmare especially when I use too much soap. It's like the whole shower turns into one big slippery death trap. Going for a run just exhausts everyone.
All of that is peanuts compared to meeting strangers for the first time. Excitement, anxiousness, sheer terror even. And so much prep to get ready. What if he doesn't like the puppy? Maybe he's just not a puppy person. Some people aren't. What if he likes the puppy, but doesn't want to pet the puppy? The puppy will be so disappointed. What if he's too rough with the puppy? Maybe he's never played with a puppy before and he's confused about what he needs to do? Oh fuck, what if the puppy hurts him and he sues? We'd have to get the puppy destroyed!
I think you get the analogy. I think the analogy maybe scared you. We also got dangerously off topic with that analogy.
I don't own any nice bras.
It's not because I don't want nice bras. It's not because I haven't looked for them. It's because they just don't exist.
I should add a short definition of 'nice bra' here. I'm not talking about something that just holds the girls in. I'm talking about something the holds everything in and makes me feel powerful at the same time. A bra that makes me feel sexy and confident. I know sexiness and confidence are supposed to come from the inside but damn a good outfit helps, right?
I go to the store sometimes, Walmart or Zellers or Sears or even La Senza or Victoria's Secret, and wander around looking at the undergarments. There are so many pretty bras, and cute ones and sexy ones. I found a really cute set today, two bras for the price of one. The first one was just a solid colour, blue pink, orange or white, and the second one was the same colour, but with little flowers printed on it. The largest size they had left was a B cup. And next to those was a black bra with Day-Glo hearts printed on it. The tag proclaimed that they glowed under black light. Awesome, right?! Someone linked me to a bra that had glow in the dark stegosauruses on it. Right up my alley and only came in an A cup.
None of those would remotely fit me. Most department or popular chain stores carry bras that at their largest are a whole cup size smaller than anything I would feasibly wear. My breasts, it would seem, are too large for mainstream society. I say it's because they're so full of joy about being alive. I have optimistic breasts. Cheerful, even.
Yeah, I can buy bras that fit at some of these stores, but they're the same kind my grandmother wears. You know the kind that come in the boxes? They're beige or cream or white and sometimes they have really hideous lace or little bows in the front. *gag* And they don't have any shape to them, all saggy and half the time they don't have under wire. I don't wear bras without under wire. I also don't wear bras that look like something a pioneer woman from the 1840's would have rejected for being too frumpy.
There's always plus size stores, right? Wrong, apparently, because my breasts are too small to be considered plus size. My breasts, it would also seem, are the freaking twilight zone.
I guess I could go to a specialty store. My mama actually took me to one once. It was so nice. They lady offered us coffee when we got there, and gave me a towel to dry my hair because it was pouring that day. I got a real, official fitting from a trained professional and she brought me pretty much anything I asked for. All of the bras were gorgeous and every single one of them was imported from either the UK or France, where they are not afraid of twilight zone breasts. Mama and I went halfsies on the single bra I chose (it was blue and had little 'C's on it with criss cross lace straps). My half came to 75$ before tax.
Not so very long ago, Katie and I ate a loaf of bread because between the two of us we could not afford to buy any food and we only had flour, salt and yeast in the house. I am too poor for imported bras at this point in my life.
But how can I go out and shake my groove thing if my undergarments make me feel old enough to break a hip? How am I ever going to work up the nerve to show off my fantastic rack if my bra isn't fabulous? You don't invite people to hang out at your house if the building is falling apart, do you? You don't host a dinner party on styrofoam plates, right? So why do I have to showcase some of my favourite bits with the equivalent of a styrofoam plate when some other girl who is just as fabulous as me except with slightly smaller or larger favourite bits gets a silver platter? That just seems unfair. It makes me sad. It makes the puppy sad. And styrofoam is bad for the environment.
And dammit, I feel bad enough about my thighs/belly/arms/man hands/overabundance of freckles/stretch marks/love handles/strange ear scar -- not to mention my emotional baggage. I love my breasts and I think everyone else should too. I would love to show them off, to invite And they deserve better than what these stores want to give them (or charge them for). Dammit, they deserve the very best. And so do I. Because everyone deserves to feel powerful and pretty and everyone deserves pretty things. Even poor students, people who live in smaller towns and nice girls who have weirdly sized breasts.
Me and my twilight zone chest will be over here if you want to make a formal apology, world.