A full frontal assault on bras

by Jade Sterling

With half an hour before home time, I could have held on. Instead, I scurried from the bathroom back to my desk, 36D bra stuffed into my waistband, tits swinging pendulously. With my back to the office, the offending item was whipped out and hidden in my handbag, swift and discreet, with none of the fanfare warranted by such a momentous occasion. I was braless at work.

This is not a common occurrence for me.

The earliest bra size I can remember being is a 34B; in the ten years since then, I’ve swelled to a 36D with my largest a 40D. These babies have always needed strapping in.

The alternative always seemed to involve under-boob sweat, indecent bounce and playing nipple peek-a-boo; even at night I’d need to keep them under some form of control.

But I didn’t suddenly come to any revelation about the right to be braless or freeing the nipple; rather, the band was digging into my skin and I was too uncomfortable to persist. It hurt.

That was Sunday afternoon. I’m writing this on a Thursday, at my desk, sans bra. I haven’t worn a bra to work all week.

I’ve had a bra on during the week; I wanted to run on the treadmill, not instantly punch myself in the face with an exuberantly bouncing boob or two. I slipped a bralette under my t-shirt when we had guests over for dinner and because walking the dogs usually involves lunging after an escape attempt, the girls were appropriately restrained for our daily walks.

Otherwise, I’ve been hanging out.

Underneath the three blouses, one bodysuit and one t-shirt paraded at the office this week, I’ve been completely braless. Not once could you tell. I found that the cotton t-shirt, despite being the one I was most concerned about, was the most comfortable—it was white but the material was thick enough that nothing offending was visible and the cotton was just lovely against the skin. Very little sweat that day. The bodysuit offered a little support which was pleasant and the cotton blouse had conveniently placed patterns right where my nipples naturally sit. If ever a shirt was designed just for me… The silky but 100 percent polyester most expensive blouse of the lot did indeed feel silky but that material trapped the heat like nothing else. Much sweat that day.

It took three days to stop feeling self-conscious. Day one I fled the office, feeling a weird sense of shame. Day two, I couldn’t stop thinking about it and kept wondering if everyone else could tell. Day three, I started to embrace it, but was also gifted a larger coffee than I ordered. Coincidence?

Again, this has not stemmed from any desire to up the feminist ante or make a bold statement about body positivity. Nor has it risen from any self-sabotage: I’m not looking to be fired from my conservative Muslim workplace.

I’m yet to have anyone even notice.

When I was frantically googling to see if it could possibly be appropriate for me to remove the back-stabbing, side-compressing contraption causing me actual pain, I discovered an entire genre of videos and articles about going braless. So many women ‘testing’ a week without a bra to see what happens. Spoiler: nothing happens.

Literally, nothing has happened.

My breasts sit on my chest and that’s it. For the first time, they seem unassuming. They’re not strapped up to my chin or smooshed together. Now, they sway when I walk and they chill when I rest. They do a little jump for joy when I stand up.

They’re just there, like I’d imagine testicles are just there. And I kinda like them.

I’ve never liked them before. They’ve always been too big, too in the way, too obtrusive, too in your face. But I realise now, that’s because I’ve made them that way. I’ve shoved them into push-up bras in an attempt to ‘flaunt my assets’, I’ve covered them for modesty’s sake when actually that extra layer was making my blouses gape at the chest.

The first couple of days, I worried that my shirts weren’t sitting right; they didn’t look right on my body. Then I noticed that it was because my boobs had moved. They were no longer hoisted at full mast and standing to attention. Now, the fabric draped delicately over their true unbound shape. And that looked just fine.

What was I worried about? Being too sexy with my nipples pointed and breasts clamouring for attention as I walked? Or not being sexy enough with breasts un-propped and thus drooping and slightly different sizes? Maybe I just wasn’t the right kind of sexy: I was no longer contained or constrained. I was out of control!

I am not flouting decorum; I am not making a sartorial or feminist statement. I’m just embracing comfort for once. Just like boobies, self-care comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. ■