Most of us were at least in diapers in the 60’s when women in great numbers started to roar. The night skies were alight with bonfires burning…what else—their bras? But not me. I had waited way too long to sprout enough to need a bra—how could I give it up without a fight? So I kept my medieval torture chamber with straps, wearing it proudly as a badge of honor for that rite of passage.
Motherhood brought on a whole new bra phase—the nursing bra became my constant companion. Never leave home, go to bed, or even take a shower without it. Wet, sour and sagging…enough said.
Next entered the divorced bras. You know the ones, décolleté and slinky. So what if I had to roll the girls up to get them in there?
Now I’m a boomer A.K.A. ‘bloomer’. Those days of wishing to fill up a B cup have long gone. Years, gravity, and pounds have had their toll and now we’re into extra heavy-duty industrial bras. They come complete with enough steel wire to retread the radials on my car. They poke and pinch and otherwise annoy me until dinner time…that’s when I’ve had enough. At that point, where am I going and who’s coming here? After dinner it’s all bras off. Ah, sweet freedom. The only thing is…my friends don’t understand why I have dinner at 2 o’clock!