A Brief History of Me, my Boobs, and Bras

When I started developing at age eleven, I found myself mortified at this thing I had to wear called a bra. No longer a mysterious garment that grown-up ladies wore and hung in their bathrooms like a huge behemoth of womanhood, it pinched, it cinched and I utterly hated it. My mother told me to get used to it.
 
To a pimply preteen, the underwire was nothing short of evil and I frequently ditched it and covered myself up with sweaters to hide my growing bust. Yes, that's right. My breasts did not exist, they simply hung there and stayed low under the fleece along with the rest of my changing body. Eventually I couldn’t hide it any longer and resorted to wearing sports bras throughout the majority of my teen years. But the older I grew, the more I couldn’t avoid the fact that I had breasts.
 
You can blame my problem with breasts on the fact that breasts are often seen as sexual symbols. The bigger they are, the bigger the…implications.  It doesn’t help that bigger breasts suggest overtly sexualized characters in our society with little intelligence. I spent most of my teenage years wishing that I was flat chested instead, traumatized by the notion that my body could now become a sexual object in the eyes of others. And a bra, particularly an underwire one in a certain cup size, could do nothing more than solidify the truth that I had grown a bust.
 
In college, I ignored the straps cutting into my shoulder and the pinch of the underwire that I reluctantly gave into because it was quite obvious that I needed more support.  So I attempted to get used to the idea of crappy bras that made me feel like I couldn’t expand my ribcage and underwires that literally bruised me. And people wondered why growing up was painful.
 
Today’s bra derived off of a much more uncomfortable undergarment, the corset.  While the inventor of the bra has been debated, the bra’s evolution from the “backless brassier” that New York socialite Caresse Crosby created in 1913 followed women’s increased mobility. A generation of flappers would discard the corset in favor of bust-flattening undergarments before further engineering and standardization would take place through Isa Rosenthal, who created cups that were fitted to breasts and founded Maidenform.   So I suppose it’s ironic that I still find it uncomfortable and restraining. Equally ironic is how the bra is still a tool for shaping the body into that idealized lift they are “supposed” to have.
 
When I asked for advice on bras, the general statement I was given was to go to Victoria's Secret. But to be honest, it is the only place that girls my age can think of when we’re thinking of bras thanks to excellent marketing. It is also the one place that I hesitate to go into; their overblown pictures of models in bras and panties looking “sexy” more aptly sells itself toward the male gaze than female sensibility, and they continue to sell “sexyness” more than comfort and functionality because it works better. A year ago, Victoria's Secret was hit a multitude of complaints over their bras creating rashes. While the reason is unclear, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some change in material to make production cheaper.
 
Over half a decade ago, Jessica Siegel pointed out that the emphasis on fashion rather than comfort, as set by Victoria’s Secret, had led the industry to a downward spiral where bras became more about making promises to push those girls up than about supporting them comfortably. Perhaps Siegel’s words had an effect, because while there are a good number of bras with scratchy fabric and difficult underwire, the day I visited several stores selling bras, there were at least a couple that could’ve made it if they weren’t beyond my budget. And that’s the trick too isn’t it? Affordability also becomes an issue. There were bras that pushed up, pushed out, plunged this, and in the middle of it, I found out the truth that I was avoiding all along.
 
I was a cup size larger than I thought I was.
 
Alright, so I turned out to be a C instead of a B. That's not huge, but to me, B was enough. B was for "bust," which I attempted to ignore for nearly seven years. C was for "cornucopia," which for all of my body-image infested years, I didn't want to have two protruding out and be one step away from D. There was a big hooplah a while back over some statistics released about 70% to 85% of women not knowing their bra sizes and causing themselves discomfort from buying the wrong bra. I suppose I always preferred myself smaller, and thus made things worse for myself. But I also think that there’s a vast disconnect from us and our bodies, which is related to all of this.
 
We aspire to a certain size, whether it be big or small, and we buy the item in hope that we’re wearing the size that we want to wear instead of the one that fits. We're also perpetually stuck on a certain size, not completely aware that our breasts can change thanks to weight gains/losses among a number of other things that happen to women's bodies over the years. Of course, we (supposedly) also want our breasts to be those circular gravity-resistant orbs like that poster of Miranda Kerr happily showing them off in the window as holiday shoppers are passing by. So what is the likelihood that we’ll strap down one of those pretty numbers and get used to it, even if it pinches a little? Is it any wonder that we’re bad at figuring out our breast size and accepting it?
 
The best advice concerning bras and comfort has been on getting a correct fitting, something that today’s off-the-rack crowd  isn’t familiar with, and who would if you unconsciously dread knowing the truth? But I also can't help but wonder whether in our boob-obsessed society, we ignore our body's needs in both the attempt to fulfill a male-oriented ideal, and also to reject it at the same time. From the corset to a bra, I wonder if our undergarments will change yet again. Until then, I am in the process of buying a new bra, and wondering about my progression toward "womanhood" as I stare at the multitude of cups laced with ribbon and satin lining the underwire.