Four years later, I had added a few variations of the same into my collection. By now, my little white trainer and I were inseparable. It had become a second skin; a blanky of sorts. Until the day my best friend Tess and I were trying on back-to-school clothes at the mall, and she not-so-gently suggested I get measured for a new bra. I recall her exact words being something like, "You are popping out of that thing!!! What is that, a training bra or something?" Reluctantly, I followed her into the posh, pink, unimaginably sensuous Victoria's Secret. After a fateful encounter with sales girl and her measuring tape, my 34-A blanky bra, with its well-loved pilled fabric and ring around the under wire, was promptly cast out for a flashy, decadent new 36C.
As I think back on that day, it is incredibly significant to me that I could be walking around in a bra two cup sizes too small. That I could be so ignorant of my own body's development. And yet, it makes so much sense. I knew that as long as I held on to that bra, it meant I could hold off on becoming a woman. On going through the inevitable awkwardness of adolescent sexual discovery I knew was coming. If I didn't have a fancy bra on, I could never allow a wandering hand to sneak under my shirt. If I could pretend I didn't have breasts, I would never have to face the vulnerability that came with having them. Or face my anger and shame at being born a woman, in a body that was sinful, dirty and wrong.
|Performing "Diamonds Are Forever"|