I’m trying to remember if I ever had a Maidenform bra. Maybe when I was a so-called maiden (with the implication being that my skin & eyes & mouth were somehow less sacred than my little unripe cunt). I had tiny little maiden breast buds then.
Maidenform. Shouldn’t there be a brand called Smash the Patriarchy? These days, my bras are tag-less and have the word “Champion” printed inside them. “Maidenform” would be false advertising.
False advertising: tool of the patriarchy. Alternative facts and fake news. So much bullshit.
Forget little girls. Let’s make Smash the Patriarchy bras for everyone, even men.
I mean: don’t forget little girls. Don’t ever forget little girls. Little girls notice when they’re forgotten. Little girls get bigger every day. A friend says she dreams of having a movement of survivors. I want to tell her, “You’re soaking in it.”
Another friend walks into my office and announces, “My breasts fell!” Honey, you don’t know the half of it. At 51, she can still get away with not wearing a bra. I, on the other hand, have Italian Grandma Boobs. I could stash Kleenex in my cleavage if I needed to, if we hadn’t already smashed the patriarchy enough that I get to wear sensible pants with pockets.
Thirty-seven years of wearing bras. My buds swelled and bloomed and faded and slumped.
These are my real breasts. When I lie down, they lie down beside me. When you stare at them, they growl. They have names: Lefty and Susan. But you can call them “Sir.”
I have one underwire bra left. Its faded tag says “Warners.” Susan has a sprinkle of scars at her source, near my right armpit. Sometimes it sends sparks of pain down to my nipple. This, I like to imagine, is a warning. A message to all breasts everywhere, transmitted by nipple antenna: “Wake up, buttercup!”
On the television, there’s a woman with breasts the size of watermelons. She’s using them to smash beer cans. I wonder if she knows what she’s practicing for.