Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Freedom
It requires a brief contortion of the arms, a motion that exists solely for this purpose and no other function except perhaps a rare itch to scratch somewhere near the sixth to tenth thoracic vertebrae.
Some can do it faster than others, and ambidextrous folk can do it with either hand. Those with
amputations have special tools to help them do it. Some undress to do it, and others can maneuver the whole thing with their clothes still on.
The best time of the day varies on the clock, but it is always marked by a singular event for those
of us with breasts — the removal of the bra.
Myself, I just get my right hand back between my shoulder blades, pinch, slide the hooks out and
I’m free. As I unhook this contraption of wires, straps, and elastic, I hear the holler-back between
The Queen of Soul and her backup singers in my mind; the bridge from Aretha Franklin’s 1968 hit single and feminist anthem “Think.” The horns shriek their modulating crescendo.“Freedom [Freedom], Freedom [Freedom], ohhhhh Freedom, yeah Freedom!” Oh, freedom, indeed.
Perhaps you don’t have breasts and are wondering if the removal of the bra is truly the best time of the day. The internet says that, for those without breasts, the experience is similar to taking off one’s socks and shoes at the end of a long day, and I’m not one to dispute that, having worn more than one pair of high heels in my day. As a person without breasts, who may very likely enjoy the breasts of others, please consider how much is happening behind the scenes to make breasts so appealing to you.
Bras are constrictive and rarely, if ever, comfortable. Their intended function is to lift and constrain the breasts into a shape and position deemed appealing, a shape and position that changes with the trends and the decades. Remember bullet bras? They were literally bras with conical cups that made your sweater puppies look like torpedo tits. We’ve come a long way from binding the breasts (ancient Greece) and metal, armor-like contraptions (a patent awarded in 1859 to an obviously misguided fellow) to maximum cleavage achieved through the Wonderbra, the Miracle Bra (marketing seems to suggest that breasts are not awe-inspiring without assistance), and even the Water Bra, made hilariously infamous in the 1999 episode of Will & Grace, “Das Boob.” With all this technology needed to lift, separate, shape, hide nipples, enhance décolletage, and achieve “invisibility” under certain fabrics, something is bound to go wrong.
Even the best fitting bra can pull down on the clavicles, leaving indentations and causing neck and shoulder pain. The elastic band that encircles the ribcage to prevent shifting is wonderful—except when it starts chafing partway through the day. Makers have only stopped sewing itchy, pesky tags into the bands in the last few years, a consideration decades overdue. And let’s not forget the monstrosity of boning and underwires designed to keep breasts in place with no concern for comfort, fit, or appearance. These little buggers are just yearning to break out and poke, scrape, and stab the delicate flesh around the bust and ribs.
The latest trend in bra design, known as “bralettes,” eschews all the aforementioned structure and instead works with scratchy, stretchy lace which bunches up under the bust line within minutes of donning. Little about the design and construction of bras has the wearer’s comfort in mind. In fact, if ever there was a garment that symbolized the patriarchy and its designs on women, it is for sure the brassiere and its cousins the corset and the bustier.
There are certainly times of the day when my experience of my breasts is superlative, thanks in part to general physiology but also to the modern technology and design of bras, which absolutely enhances the appearance of my breasts. The feeling of composure and confidence I get while dressing at the beginning of the day is underscored by the way my undergarments and clothes work together to help me look my best.
But that fleeting moment of satisfaction I feel with the cleavage that comes from having to manually adjust and settle my breasts into the molded foam cups can never compare to the profound sense of liberation that comes more than 12 hours later, when I am sweaty, red, chafed, and aching.
Surely you can imagine why we who have breasts would be eager to liberate ourselves from the tyranny of elastic and mesh, and how significant this moment would be in our day. And for those
who appreciate breasts and anticipate spending time with them in their natural state, the removal
of the bra is likely to be the time of the day you look forward to most, too.
Google offers over 11 million results on how to remove a bra, with the entire first page of results
targeted to heterosexual men who might want to seem suave and seductive while disrobing their
lover. This matter of liberating the breasts from the confines of the bra clearly has significant
implications, because one site introduces their how-to by saying “Removing a bra is important
for girls to learn at a young age, but even more important for guys to learn.” Just let that marinate
for a minute.
It’s been said that taking off the bra at the end of the day is like punching a time clock: It signifies that you are done for the day. The physical relief that comes with removing the bra at the end of the day is symbolic of the existential relief so many are striving for. Liberating yourself of your burdens, responsibilities, the things that bind you and hold you back…that is real freedom. Even if you don’t have breasts, you probably love and care for someone who does. Believe me, this is the best time of their day and potentially yours, too.
***
The above is a persuasive essay prompted by the question "What's the best time of day?" This essay was submitted to the Yeah Write Super Challenge essay contest in July 2016. Please read more about how donating your underpinnings can help other women.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Missing
I was home sick from school the day she went missing.
I was faking it, really, just a little sick. A police officer came to our house around supper time with serious questions about where I had been that day and if I had been with her. My mother confirmed that I had been home sick, never left, that we had not seen her, and I nodded along. I was terrified that the police had come because they somehow knew I had faked being sick so I could stay home from school, and woo boy, was I in trouble.
She sat next to me in school. We shared the same first name and our last names started with the same letter; for the first few days some people misunderstood or misheard and thought it was I who had gone missing. Seating arrangements followed a traditional format in Mrs. McGregor’s classroom, although later in the year she went wild and rearranged our desks from neat rows into pods of four and five. I wonder if that was the only way she could cope with the desk that sat empty next to mine for weeks.
Most of us kids were too young to understand what was going on beyond the notion that someone took her away, but things changed regardless of our ability to comprehend. Our parents were immediately sucked into a shared hell and our teachers joined them there. The innocence of our idyllic community was taken with her. We weren’t safe anymore.
“Stranger danger” became a regular topic of conversation which we endured with the same enthusiasm we’d have for a lecture from our parents. Police officers spoke in every class room. Teachers, guidance counselors, administrators, and school nurses were all on constant alert. They had to because we all continued to be the chaotic bundles of self-centered energy that children are supposed to be.
Day-to-day life looked the same but you could feel a tightness. Parents spoke in hushed tones and cried when they thought the kids were out of earshot. With terror straining their vocal chords, they shrieked and hollered at us kids when we dawdled on the walk home from school. Neighborhood moms started taking turns driving us to school in the mornings, much to our delight. We didn’t know it was because they were grasping at anything they could control. We didn’t know we got those rides because it was on the way to school when she had gone missing.
The older kids were far more in tune with the chaos that followed. A girl in my neighborhood lied and said she had information when she didn’t, which got her whole lot of attention she didn’t plan for. Her grab for attention initiated a whole new round of visits from the police explaining to living rooms full of neighborhood kids why it was so dangerous to give false accounts. That girl’s parents, in their fear and embarrassment, whooped her something fierce.
A mysterious, dark blue van was allegedly seen around town the morning she disappeared. And just like that vans became the enemy and a powerful symbol of danger. Neighborhood kids made childish threats and taunts about The Blue Van like they would the Bogey Man, when it was really just the the only thing our community could point to and call “monster” in the aftermath. Everyone tried to sell their vans. Pickup trucks became the vehicle in demand for tradesmen. Owning a van labeled you a pedophile, made you a suspect, cost you work.
Investigations were carried out, but no evidence was ever found that pointed to her location or what might have happened to her. Intellectually, I know she is presumed dead, but the child within me that struggled through multiplication tables next to her in school just can’t abide the thought that she will never, ever come back.
In my mind, I can only call up two images of her. One is of her sitting to my left at our desks, head down, concentrating on what she was writing. The other is her school portrait on the thousands of MISSING CHILD posters that were hung all over town and beyond. Decades later, that same wide smile shines out from a curtain of pin-straight brown hair and surprises me sometimes in the post office or town hall. People talked about it less and less over time. Many who live here now don’t know that girl in the posters or the significance of her name.
Not long ago, I dreamed I was wandering lost in my elementary school. There were entire wings I didn’t recognize or remember, and I was the only person roaming the halls. I could see classes in session and hear the teachers giving their lessons but the doors were all locked. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone so I just kept looking for an open room. I came across Mrs. McGregor’s classroom and it was empty. There was no indication of where her class had gone.
My developing psyche had no language for the trauma of my classmate being kidnapped. It was just a thing that happened and lived in my memory. The lives of the families in our community eventually found a new equilibrium and my friends and I grew up into good, morally upright citizens - the best I think our parents and our teachers could have ever hoped for.
But a gnawing feeling persists, ever reminding me that children are taken. Our society is heaving with tragedy and I can survive it because the worst happened and we carried on. I learned how to turn off my heart and keep showing up when something horrific and inexplicable happens, because it never stops happening and no answers ever come. My life is always watching for The Blue Van, afraid to walk anywhere alone, never trusting strangers, forever wondering what danger may lurk.
***
The above is a personal account of actual events surrounding the kidnapping of Tammy Belanger in 1984 and was submitted to the Yeah Write Super Challenge essay contest in July 2016. Please support the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children.
I was faking it, really, just a little sick. A police officer came to our house around supper time with serious questions about where I had been that day and if I had been with her. My mother confirmed that I had been home sick, never left, that we had not seen her, and I nodded along. I was terrified that the police had come because they somehow knew I had faked being sick so I could stay home from school, and woo boy, was I in trouble.
She sat next to me in school. We shared the same first name and our last names started with the same letter; for the first few days some people misunderstood or misheard and thought it was I who had gone missing. Seating arrangements followed a traditional format in Mrs. McGregor’s classroom, although later in the year she went wild and rearranged our desks from neat rows into pods of four and five. I wonder if that was the only way she could cope with the desk that sat empty next to mine for weeks.
Most of us kids were too young to understand what was going on beyond the notion that someone took her away, but things changed regardless of our ability to comprehend. Our parents were immediately sucked into a shared hell and our teachers joined them there. The innocence of our idyllic community was taken with her. We weren’t safe anymore.
“Stranger danger” became a regular topic of conversation which we endured with the same enthusiasm we’d have for a lecture from our parents. Police officers spoke in every class room. Teachers, guidance counselors, administrators, and school nurses were all on constant alert. They had to because we all continued to be the chaotic bundles of self-centered energy that children are supposed to be.
Day-to-day life looked the same but you could feel a tightness. Parents spoke in hushed tones and cried when they thought the kids were out of earshot. With terror straining their vocal chords, they shrieked and hollered at us kids when we dawdled on the walk home from school. Neighborhood moms started taking turns driving us to school in the mornings, much to our delight. We didn’t know it was because they were grasping at anything they could control. We didn’t know we got those rides because it was on the way to school when she had gone missing.
The older kids were far more in tune with the chaos that followed. A girl in my neighborhood lied and said she had information when she didn’t, which got her whole lot of attention she didn’t plan for. Her grab for attention initiated a whole new round of visits from the police explaining to living rooms full of neighborhood kids why it was so dangerous to give false accounts. That girl’s parents, in their fear and embarrassment, whooped her something fierce.
A mysterious, dark blue van was allegedly seen around town the morning she disappeared. And just like that vans became the enemy and a powerful symbol of danger. Neighborhood kids made childish threats and taunts about The Blue Van like they would the Bogey Man, when it was really just the the only thing our community could point to and call “monster” in the aftermath. Everyone tried to sell their vans. Pickup trucks became the vehicle in demand for tradesmen. Owning a van labeled you a pedophile, made you a suspect, cost you work.
Investigations were carried out, but no evidence was ever found that pointed to her location or what might have happened to her. Intellectually, I know she is presumed dead, but the child within me that struggled through multiplication tables next to her in school just can’t abide the thought that she will never, ever come back.
In my mind, I can only call up two images of her. One is of her sitting to my left at our desks, head down, concentrating on what she was writing. The other is her school portrait on the thousands of MISSING CHILD posters that were hung all over town and beyond. Decades later, that same wide smile shines out from a curtain of pin-straight brown hair and surprises me sometimes in the post office or town hall. People talked about it less and less over time. Many who live here now don’t know that girl in the posters or the significance of her name.
Not long ago, I dreamed I was wandering lost in my elementary school. There were entire wings I didn’t recognize or remember, and I was the only person roaming the halls. I could see classes in session and hear the teachers giving their lessons but the doors were all locked. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone so I just kept looking for an open room. I came across Mrs. McGregor’s classroom and it was empty. There was no indication of where her class had gone.
My developing psyche had no language for the trauma of my classmate being kidnapped. It was just a thing that happened and lived in my memory. The lives of the families in our community eventually found a new equilibrium and my friends and I grew up into good, morally upright citizens - the best I think our parents and our teachers could have ever hoped for.
But a gnawing feeling persists, ever reminding me that children are taken. Our society is heaving with tragedy and I can survive it because the worst happened and we carried on. I learned how to turn off my heart and keep showing up when something horrific and inexplicable happens, because it never stops happening and no answers ever come. My life is always watching for The Blue Van, afraid to walk anywhere alone, never trusting strangers, forever wondering what danger may lurk.
***
The above is a personal account of actual events surrounding the kidnapping of Tammy Belanger in 1984 and was submitted to the Yeah Write Super Challenge essay contest in July 2016. Please support the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
An open letter to my Amygdala
Hello! How are you? I am doing well tonight, thank you. Thank you also for taking the night off this fine Tuesday. I wanted to tell you that you and I, we are okay! I have confirmed with reputable sources that we are in fact NOT being chased by a bear! Isn't that terrific?! I know I am certainly relieved.
Thank you for all the hard work you do keeping things real. The ability to operate on pure lizard instinct is thrilling! I am glad that when we work together I can survive all kinds of exciting and dangerous events, such as Going To The Movies, Avoiding An Animal In The Road, Speaking In Public, Turning Left At The Supermarket Traffic Light, and more!
However, at this time, we are cool as cucumbers. We are slicker than shit through a goose. Bob Marley himself would encourage you and say not to worry about a thing! Please enjoy a nice rest from protecting me from catastrophe while we coast through a series of uneventful day-to-day life events. I will for sure call you when I think your services would be helpful; I've got your number on speed dial. I may need you again soon for important survival moments, such as Am I Allergic To That, I Slept Through My Alarm, and I Can't Find My Phone.
You work so hard. You've earned a break! Go take care of YOU, pal.
Fondly,
TuRBO
Friday, July 11, 2014
Too much salt
Typically, I am very stingy with the salt in my cooking. I don't enjoy food that is overly salty (unless we're talking about Lay's Original potato chips - that is a sacred thing), so I normally prepare food to a more neutral palette and let everyone salt their dish to their preference.
I made a dish a few days ago of rice, beans, corn, peppers, grilled tilapia, and roasted chorizo. Because I was bringing this to a potluck, I got nervous that it would be bland and threw in a bunch of salt at the last moment. And now, finishing off the leftovers of this dish, I'm struggling to enjoy it because it's too salty for me. I love each component's flavor and texture on its own, but combined with the salt, it's just too much.
While eating it for lunch just now, it struck me how fitting this is when taking me on the whole. On my own, I like the marriage of my various ingredients, the aspects of my personality and character that make me who I am. But when it's time for me to put on a public face, to share some part of myself with others, I tend to overcompensate for what I perceive as my own shortcomings, lay it on too thick, and just become too much. Then I am embarrassed, privately critiquing my own composition, fearful that everyone is silently judging me for being too much, or worse, not enough.
I made a dish a few days ago of rice, beans, corn, peppers, grilled tilapia, and roasted chorizo. Because I was bringing this to a potluck, I got nervous that it would be bland and threw in a bunch of salt at the last moment. And now, finishing off the leftovers of this dish, I'm struggling to enjoy it because it's too salty for me. I love each component's flavor and texture on its own, but combined with the salt, it's just too much.
While eating it for lunch just now, it struck me how fitting this is when taking me on the whole. On my own, I like the marriage of my various ingredients, the aspects of my personality and character that make me who I am. But when it's time for me to put on a public face, to share some part of myself with others, I tend to overcompensate for what I perceive as my own shortcomings, lay it on too thick, and just become too much. Then I am embarrassed, privately critiquing my own composition, fearful that everyone is silently judging me for being too much, or worse, not enough.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Dusting this thing off
Well, the time has arrived to dust this thing off.
October has been a busy month in every arena of my life, and I'm teeming with excitement at what has been accomplished and put away, what is still in progress, and whatever comes next.
Next month I'll be participating in National Novel Writing Month for the first time, and attempting to write a novel! It's shaping up to be a murder mystery/drama, and it's really hard to shut my mind off and do other things as my imagination runs wild with story ideas! I strongly recommend that you check out NaNoWriMo for yourself, whether as a writer, a supporter, or just a fan of writing, books, and words.
I've been clearing away a lot of loose ends in preparation for NaNo, where the goal is to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November. That's about 1,667 words per day. Recent experimentation has shown me that I can write about 500 words per hour, with research time, a little Facebooking, and dawdling thrown in there. So I'm thinking ahead to 2-3 hours of solid writing per day, on average. Considering that I have commitments every Wednesday and Friday night, plus a full-time job and a stellar boyfriend that I really love spending time with, this is going to be an interesting exercise in commitment and time management.
So I have finished other personal writing projects, balanced my checkbook, done all the laundry, cleaned my car, bought some groceries, and stocked up on my daily medications. Stellar boyfriend and I are taking a long-weekend road trip in a few days, which will be a nice break from routine to relax and have some fun after a couple of high-intensity weeks at work, and before the fingertip-grinding typing of 50,000 words starts on November 1st.
Local friends, there will be a gathering of NaNo participants from the area on November 1st at the Barnes & Noble in Newington at 7pm. Bring a laptop, tablet, Moleskine, granite & chisel, tattoo gun, whatever you need to write with. It's going to be amazing.
Holy shit - I'm behaving like a writer.
It's going to be amazing.
October has been a busy month in every arena of my life, and I'm teeming with excitement at what has been accomplished and put away, what is still in progress, and whatever comes next.
Next month I'll be participating in National Novel Writing Month for the first time, and attempting to write a novel! It's shaping up to be a murder mystery/drama, and it's really hard to shut my mind off and do other things as my imagination runs wild with story ideas! I strongly recommend that you check out NaNoWriMo for yourself, whether as a writer, a supporter, or just a fan of writing, books, and words.
I've been clearing away a lot of loose ends in preparation for NaNo, where the goal is to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November. That's about 1,667 words per day. Recent experimentation has shown me that I can write about 500 words per hour, with research time, a little Facebooking, and dawdling thrown in there. So I'm thinking ahead to 2-3 hours of solid writing per day, on average. Considering that I have commitments every Wednesday and Friday night, plus a full-time job and a stellar boyfriend that I really love spending time with, this is going to be an interesting exercise in commitment and time management.
So I have finished other personal writing projects, balanced my checkbook, done all the laundry, cleaned my car, bought some groceries, and stocked up on my daily medications. Stellar boyfriend and I are taking a long-weekend road trip in a few days, which will be a nice break from routine to relax and have some fun after a couple of high-intensity weeks at work, and before the fingertip-grinding typing of 50,000 words starts on November 1st.
Local friends, there will be a gathering of NaNo participants from the area on November 1st at the Barnes & Noble in Newington at 7pm. Bring a laptop, tablet, Moleskine, granite & chisel, tattoo gun, whatever you need to write with. It's going to be amazing.
Holy shit - I'm behaving like a writer.
It's going to be amazing.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Bicycle Eve
One more sleep.
Tomorrow is the day I pay for and take home my new bicycle. To say that I'm excited is a hideous understatement -- I am beside myself.
My birthday is in a few days, my roommate came home from her convalescence, tomorrow night is a bonfire birthday party, and my sister is joining us for the weekend.
And I'm sitting here in my pajamas wearing my bike helmet. Breaking it in, like you do.
It feels like Christmas AND my birthday all at once.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I ride.
Tomorrow is the day I pay for and take home my new bicycle. To say that I'm excited is a hideous understatement -- I am beside myself.
My birthday is in a few days, my roommate came home from her convalescence, tomorrow night is a bonfire birthday party, and my sister is joining us for the weekend.
And I'm sitting here in my pajamas wearing my bike helmet. Breaking it in, like you do.
It feels like Christmas AND my birthday all at once.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I ride.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
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