Inner Beauty

WARNING: There's going to be a discussion of breasts, guys. And it's going to be decidedly UNsexy. About as unsexy as discussions come. Enter at your own risk.

In a recent entry, Jane was taking to task those of us women who wear less-than-flattering undergarments. Oh, why try to be demure about it...bras. She was unhappy with the bra choices made by many women. I believe the phrase Saggy Fitztitsalot was used. I believe I laughed a lot. But then I had to take exception.

My exception-taking went as follows:

I wear cheap, crappy bras...and only when I absolutely must. (At home, Iam all floppy the second I get in the house. But then again, my shoes also come off the minute I get inside, so you'd already be disgusted with me.) When I'm going out and I think I can get away with it (read: any event that won't earn me money), I go with a comfy old sports bra or somesuch. Because all those wires trying to haul my fatty boobs off my stomach HURT!

The thing is? Anyone who doesn't like the way my tits look in my clothes is free not to sleep with me. In all other cases, I just don't care. If the perkiness of my breasts makes a difference in my relationship with someone, then I'm probably better off without him/her.

Except for you, Jane. Of course, except for you. When we finally get to meet, I'll be sure to buy the best bra they sell at Nordstrom's. I promise.

When my sister and I were younger, we used to have a sort of perpetual argument over why we would dress the way we would dress. My assertion was that I dressed either to please the guy I was dating, or to attract a guy I wanted to date. She said the person you should have in mind when you get dressed is your best girlfriend, because they are the only ones who even bother to notice.

You can tell that neither of us were Teen Feminists, can't you?

Today, I dress for nobody--or, rather, I dress for myself. And myself doesn't care if my breasts are hanging down a little lower than yours (or your wife's or whoever's), so long as I'm comfy and cozy and not digging at myself, all cranky and uncomfortable. You know? And if Baroy doesn't like it, well...He knew what he was getting when he married me, and I'm pretty sure he's OK with the deal he made. It's not like I was ever an impeccably turned out fashion plate. Hell, it's not like I am usually even decently turned out...except for those times when my sister hands me down her more-fashionable-than-anything-else-I-own wardrobe. And even then, she often sighs deeply at me when she sees me and says, "TC, I cannot believe you're still wearing that shirt! I must have given it to you eight years ago!" (Of course, she only says that because I make sure she doesn't see me wearing the things she gave me 12 years ago.)

It's not that I don't care what I look like so much as...well, I guess I don't care what I look like. But it's not like I go out of my way to look like crap. What it is is that I simply won't go out of my way to look either good or bad. I won't do anything, style-wise, that requires either a significant effort. I have THINGS to do, you know? I wear makeup less than a half-dozen times a year and haven't done anything except airdry my hair in years, if not a decade. and I won't do anything, style-wise, that makes me uncomfortable. I hate having anything touch my throat, for instance, so turtle necks have and always will be out. And I hate having anything constricting my chest, and so...I do the best I can with my bras, but if they hurt, they're out. And if I can get away without one...

I've always wondered why it is that these sorts of things don't interest me or bother me or motivate me. I've always wondered why it is that I don't care about this sort of thing...and whether it would somehow have made my life better, or easier, or richer if I did. I wonder.