If Ricky Gervais can talk publicly about not wearing underwear during the pandemic, then it's okay for me, too - right? Because one thing that I'm going to find hard to get used to once this pandemic is over, is wearing a bra again. It's so comfortable without one. It feels carefree and natural, real.
It reminds me of my first experiences with a bra as a teenager. Initially, I couldn't wait to wear one, to be inducted into the world of adulthood, of femininity and ... sexuality. But once I'd been fitted for one, I couldn't bear the feeling of being so caged in. It was an obstructionist appliance, made of hard metal clasps and scratchy, skin-irritating fabrics. I'd keep taking it off, and then would notice my mother GLARING at me from across the room, chastising me with her eyes, for not complying to socially acceptable standards of dress. Sometimes she'd confront me, drawing everybody's attention to my quiet rebellion, and instruct me to go to my room to put my bra on - it was so embarrassing to have my bra mentioned in front of my Dad and brothers!
It's natural for nipples to reach down towards one's waist, not point upwards towards the sky, isn't it? Somewhere in history, society deemed naturally falling breasts to not be acceptable or attractive enough, and that something needed to be done to 'improve' their disposition.
It seems now that the only reason I wear one in public ... is so as not to draw stares, either from women alarmed that I don't try to support my breasts and show them off better, according to society's standards, or from men who seem to think that visible nipples are there to be openly stared at.
The question is whether I will resume wearing a socially acceptable device afterwards, or be bold and confident enough to "burn my bra" again, as I once had after my early years at university, and away from home.