Adventures in Bralessness

I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the paper the other day. A French scientist who’s spent 16 years studying women’s boobs (can I just say he must have been absolutely fucking gold at party small talk) has come to the unexpected conclusion that bras are worse than useless. Said scientist is now encouraging women to go braless in order to improve breast ‘perkiness’ and self-support.

Ladies, were we not taught that without our bras, all our bits would end up round our knees? That we’d develop permanent stretch marks and sagginess faster than you could say ‘areola’? That the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would arrive, bearing fiery curses of unfuckableness?

Could ‘freeboobing’ really be the way of the future?

To examine this issue further, dear reader, I decided* to venture into never-neverland, into the jungle of the weird and wonderful unknown. I spent my entire working day yesterday braless.

It went a little like this…

8:30am: Driving to work. This actually feels weirdly liberating. Like skinny dipping or going commando in a dress (without the terror of rogue wind gusts). I could get used to this.

8:45am: Walking from the car to the office. I have what appears to be two small traffic cones sticking out of my chest. It’s fast heading towards winter, and the climate is (dare I say it) a tad nippy. I slow my walking pace, just in case I trip over and impale someone, and say a silent prayer of thanks for the lace detailing on my top. Thankfully, my needle nungas are completely invisible to anybody looking at me front-on. Now I just have to worry about the people taller than me. Oh wait. That’s everyone.

8:50am: Arrive at work. My leather jacket is on and zipped up, and there it will stay until I warm up and ‘retract’.

9:00am: Called into a client meeting I’d forgotten about. Fuck fuckity fuckles. It’s the devout churchgoer too (of course it bloody is). Looks like the jacket’s staying on a while yet. The client shoots me a slightly quizzical glance when I walk in looking like I’ve come straight from a biker gathering, but it’s better than the alternative. I have newfound sympathy for all the men who have to conceal unfortunate bumps at deeply inappropriate moments.

10:30am: Back at my desk. I tentatively remove the jacket, breathe a sigh of relief, and go about my day. I keep trying to catch my reflection in the window, and to anyone watching I’ll look vain as hell. Maybe I am. Am I really being this neurotic about a pair of frigging breasts?

10:45am: Walking to reception. Yes. Yes, I am that neurotic. I grab two sticking plasters off the receptionist, duck into the bathroom, and pop them over the pointy bits.

10:50am: In the bathroom. I finally see my reflection properly, and my boobs definitely look odd. I feel a bit sad that my own natural shape seems so alien to me.

12:30pm: Taking a walk in my break. It’s warmed up since the morning, but I’m still chillier than usual – that extra layer of fabric makes a lot more difference than you’d think. There’s a bit of a jiggle factor going on, and I can only imagine what trying to exercise sans bra would be like. Probably on a par with stapling a pair of stockings to my chest and shoving a rockmelon down each of the legs.

1:30pm: Back at work. Sore and grumpy and counting down the minutes.

6:00pm: Heading home. Thank fuck.

6:45pm: Arrive home. I stomp upstairs, tear off my sticking plasters, shriek with pain, re-holster myself, and resolve to never ever try that again.

Maybe I’ve been brainwashed by money-grubbing bra marketers. Maybe I’d be in better shape if I stopped rocking the boulder holders for good. Science seems to think so. Well, science, I gave it a crack, and while I was a bit shocked at how unnatural it felt to go au naturale, doing it every day is definitely not for me. It’s not comfortable, it’s not practical, and if I walk past a playground I’ll get arrested. So tough titty.

*This is an utter lie. Far from making a conscious decision to research this pressing issue for the good of womankind, my ‘choice’ to go braless coincided exactly with the moment I stepped into the showers at the gym and realised my bra was still on the bed at home. Along with my towel. In other news, drip drying sucks.

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