Have you heard of this thing called a “t-shirt bra”? I just bought one, and it’s like I’m fucking fourteen years old—every time I go to the bathroom I have to lift up my shirt to check out how amazing my tits look.
As I have previously gloated about ad infinitum, I do not buy sweatshop clothes. I don’t really buy new clothes at all, except from small companies and cool designers as a special treat a few times a year. But I spend more time thinking about clothes than someone with the hardcore anti-consumerist views I have rightly should. Sometimes I am walking past, say, Rambling Rose on Main Street in my little town, where the pretty dresses are arranged so artfully, and I get a surge of “I want to buy clothes” that electrifies my entire body. If I had the cash, I would spend a lot on Etsy and with other good small designers, and if I had the time I would thrift shop my way into many times more clothes than I have now. But I have neither, so new clothes are a big thing for me, even thrifted ones.
Enter Target, that vast wasteland of post-apocalyptic American stinkall. Because of the containers debacle (my business is all about debacles, I tells ya) I am constantly making furtive horrible trips to Target, which I once explained in this post but I’ll explain it all again anyway. Right now most of my cooler bags and containers for my meal delivery service are 3-5 years old, so I’ve been replacing them little by little as their shoddy craftsmanorwhatevership gives out. I’ve looked into ordering both wholesale, but it is actually more expensive than buying them at Target, can you believe that? So I go to Target. But they have this policy of stocking no more than 8 or so containers at a time, so I have to constantly pop into any Target I happen to be passing.
I’m usually pretty good about not buying excess plasticky shit there, but I usually have to walk past the horrid siren song of the clearance women’s clothes rack. This is super dangerous. The clothes are so cheap! And not as cheaply made as you might think! And, I’m so humiliated to be admitting this, but….they are, some of them, anyway, sort of….super duper rad.
So sometimes things happen. I don’t take drugs, I’m not an alcoholic, I’m not a major asshole—so maybe every few months I put like $30 (I swear to god, $30 gets you ridiculously far in that 75% off rack! It’s against everything I stand for in the whole world, but the allure of a $4 tank top that is insanely awesome still makes my heart beat fast!) into the pocket of Target, is that so bad? It sort of is, because there is a Goodwill 15 minutes from my kitchen that appears to be the final resting place for all the clothes that Target can’t even sell for 75% off. Has anyone else noticed this weird phenomenon—that Goodwills are sometimes filled almost exclusively with Target stuff? So I should just go there, but anyway anyway anyway, sometimes things happen, and what happened last week was this cute bra and panties set thing and believe you me, dearest internet, I am not a person who likes that I just wrote “panties.” My god. I wear “underwear.” Not panties. But these have a fucking bow, two in fact, so I guess that makes them panties. (As a saving grace, they are a sedate blue.) But for $10 I got a matching bra and since the only other bra-like contraptions I have are those annoying American Apparel (pre-AA ban, I should add) sports bras things that smush everything into an unappetizing uniboob (because everyone knows: boobs must be appetizing!), this bra is a fucking revelation to me.
Everything about the bra amazes me. I don’t know why this seems so fancy as I know that all bras have this, but I love the three sets of hooks so you can basically decide just how much of a girl you want to be that day. How much discomfort are you willing to trade for tits that defy gravity to ever more ridiculous degrees? (As I’ve learned from you peeps, though, some women want to wear bras because they are actually more comfortable, and I bow to you.)
That’s not the best feature of the bra, though. I’ve never owned one of these t-shirt bra deals before, because I thought that padded bras were ridiculous. I’m proud of my 32-As! I’m not going to plump them up at all. But the minute I put it on I realized that they have another benefit: nipple protection. Women! WOW. Yet another thing my mom declined to tell me about: padded bras don’t just exist to make your breasts look bigger, they are there to hide your scandalous nipples and evenly round out any scandalously pyramidy or pointy boobs you might have. (My mom mostly wore tube tops when I was growing up, and when she went into the supermarket she would throw on an old short-sleeve work shirt sort of thing. I’m sure she wore, and still wears, bras to work—dingy white mom-type stretched-out affairs—but all I remember are the hilarious and highly embarrassing tube tops.)
I personally love it when women walk around brazenly with no bra on and it gets cold and they just don’t care who notices. But I don’t love it when it happens to me, because you know the deal: people notice! So I always carry a hoodie, and that gets dumb. Today I was parading around the cold health food store with my thin t-shirt dress and my magical cheap-as-shit t-shirt bra in total confidence that no skanky hippie dude would be flirting with me because everyone knows that having a little headlights action going on means anyone can flirt with you.
It was wonderful.
Well, a hippie dude flirted with me anyway.
But his opening line was the blue in my hair, not my fantastic rack (speaking of, what’s going on with my dress in that picture??). Have you ever noticed that hippie dudes are the worst flirters in the whole world? The whole affair was a bit of a fiasco, as those types of things always are. I left wondering, as I always do, what all women always wonder: that mixture of “was I gracious?/Did I send clear enough ‘NOT INTERESTED’ signals?/But was he maybe just making conversation and not flirting, and if so, was I a giant asshole?” Repeat repeat repeat.
I don’t blame the bra, though. He was just a flirty hippie dude. My dips into the world of femininity do seem to have upped my propensity to be flirted with though. Which reminds me, I need to write a post about leg shaving. I’ll tell it to you in a haiku, instead, ok?
you never told me
about smoothness and texture—
softness, so quiet.
10 years of not shaving my legs, and one day (because a band who was staying chez moi left a razor and shaving cream in the shower, actually) I just did it. TEXTURE! Wow. I didn’t mind my hairy legs, they weren’t all that hairy even, but I am wildly in love with the smoothness of my brand new legs. I’m telling myself that it’s all about texture, and mixing things up, and fucking with people who think of me as a hairy-legged bitch. But I’ve been girling-it up pretty hardcore for a while now, and I can’t quite explain why. It’s fun, and that freaks me out a bit. Feminism is about having choices, right? Right?