Boobs, Fashion and the Cult of Femininity.

For the past 4ish months, I've been doing something you may not agree with: wearing sports bras pretty much all the time. I recently put all my "real" bra's (with the exception of my strapless one) in the pile to donate/get rid of. And no, I don't have those itty bitty I-probably-don't-need-to-wear-anything boobs. But I've also not had kids, so take of this what you will.

Why am I doing something that would make the fashion police (and my former self, to be quite honest) scream? My bra's were falling apart. The straps were so stretched out they fell off even on the tightest setting. The clasp was almost broken on one, the band on another was starting to fray.  

At Christmas, I'd received two sports bras from Target. As my other ones disintegrated, their purpose slowly expanded: one became my workout bra, and the other for everything else. When the clasp on one of my sad bras finally broke, I went to Target and bought three more. 

These bras are heaven. Soft. Light. No underwire. No falling straps. No itchy lines when they come off. Think Crocs for your boobs, except, you know, not.

If you're a feminist, you've heard the arguments against bras: they were created by the patriarchy to make our lady-parts nicer to look at (which reminds me of this 1981 commercial, even though it isn't about boobies). Like high-heels and spanks, bra's were yet another unnecessary and somewhat sadistic product marketed to control women by making them feel "beautiful" with them and "ugly" without. Thus, the molded look becomes fashionable, and the freer, saggier version is something you sport when confined to your home, only in presence of those who know what your morning breath smells like.

Though, I know a lot of women (esp. those post-childbirth) wear structured bras for the actual support it provides, not fashion. I understand and can't really argue with someone endorsing "real" bras for that purpose, but what about those who don't really need the support (I'm looking at you, 15-year-old Maggie)? Or those who may be on the fence (I'm looking at you, present-day-Maggie)?

What is "fashion" anyway? I love clothes and not feeling like I just stumbled out of a bad 90s movie just as much as the next 20-something, but seriously, don't you get the feeling that "fashion" is sometimes merely code for the Cult of Femininity?

I'm not here to talk you out of never buying cute clothes ever again. Though I am trying to be more environmentally-friendly, cost-effective and responsible with my purchases, I will admit the only time I ever visit thrift stores is to find furniture or halloween costumes. For a cute top to wear out? Forget it, I'm going to mall with the rest of America. I'm still working on letting go of my teenage-girl vanity, but it is a slow, slow process. Even though I think advertising and beauty expectations and being "sexy" is all bullshit, damned if I internalize all of it, too.

But yesterday, I made a choice. I could've easily bought a new, "real" bra (and by easily, I mean spent an hour trying on 15 bras), but I said fuck it. Instead, I bought 3 shirts: one with a built-in bra, and two that easily disguise my non-bra.

Obviously, buying shirts I plan to wear with sports bras limits my selections: no shirts that are low-cut. No sheer. No strapless. No tank tops (though, one was a racerback, which I actually prefer to tanks because I hate those damn straps). But really, who do I need to be showing my boobs off to anyway, especially with shirts I plan to wear to class? (Also, I *can* still be normal and wear a regular bra with these things anyway.) 

This all may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me, it's a victory. I want to move away from sacrificing my body in the name of fashion. I want to wear things that are comfortable, that don't cut into my skin or make me want to scratch till I bleed.

Till I am convinced otherwise, I'm sticking to my non-bras and keeping my strapless nude one for special occasions. The shirts I buy from now on will either look good with sports bras, with no bra, or, if it's really that damn cute, a strapless one. Adios to the rest.