Wanna know what a new bra from Victoria's Secret can do to you? It can cause you to venture to places previously unknown to you, to engage in activity you've been a voyeur of, but never a participant in. It can cause you to do this:
I have Silly Feet. I have Silly Feet with a french pedicure. How did this happen? And what does it have to do with a bra? Well, let's back up a little, oh, say, about 36 years.
I entered college at a rebellious time. Where the stuggles of Civil Rights marked my time in high school, the Viet Nam war and women's liberation were the hallmarks of my time in college. At the beginning of my senior year in high school, the fall ritual of my girlhood, the Miss America Pageant, was stormed by 150 women who protested the objectification of women the pageant promoted.
The women tossed symbols of this objectification - make-up, girdles, heels and bras into a "freedom can" as thier mantra "Let's Judge Ourselves as People," emblazoned on picket signs, was held high above their heads. Women's Liberation had begun to take hold.
A year later, I entered college. A women's college. A college that had just recently become a four year institution and where I could've majored in Marriage and the Family, had I desired (I'm not speaking metaphorically - it was an actual degree). Milinery was an elective.
Within a month, my class had convinced the administration to ease up on the dress code and allow jeans to be worn on campus. Skirts were still mandatory at dinner, though.
Then I reached a momentus occassion. The memory remains crystal clear. I'm standing in front of the mirror in my dorm room, having just buttoned up my nehru collared shirt - it was dark red and had lots of little buttons - what's different is that I am sans bra.
Freedom. Oh glorious freedom.
I'd hated those straitjackets from the first one my grandmother got me in seventh grade which kept riding up because there was nothing to keep it down. And, granted, at 18 I was barely 90 lbs (sigh) and skinnier than air, so there still wasn't much to set free, but my private protest was huge. I embraced the Women's Lib movement with all my being - it went a long way to shape the person I am today (no pun intended).
So there I was, sans bra, sans makeup, jeans, shirt, wire rims and long hair. The transformation was complete.
Which, sorta, brings us to today. I haven't actually "owned" a bra since that time. Except for the occasional necessary one for the stage if required by the costume designer, I had banished them from my wardrode, ignoring the increasing poundage and amplitude over time. Until now.
Modern technolgy has enabled the creation of some really great new fabrics for clothing these days. The "micro-fiber" can be found in just about everything. It started with a couple of turtlenecks I bought that were really thin and soft and felt really good on the skin and wearing with a cami underneath didn't do the job and, well, I had a problem...
Reluctantly, I went in search of a solution to the problem. Amy recently wrote about the "perfect bra" and I wondered if one existed out there for me.
I turned to Google to tell me how to size myself. Once I'd determined that (an awkward and potentially embarassing task which I completed in my office one afternoon), I commenced the search. Two bras, and a cami-bra later, I found it. At Victoria's Secret. The place which I'd scoffed at with a "who the hell would pay $45 for a bra fer christ sake."
It turns out, I would.
It didn't stop there. Like a new friend who you instantly connect with, my new bra took hold of me and said, "Girl, we're going shopping."
Oh the humanity.
I'd transformed into something unrecognizable... a mall rat... a.. a.. girly girl - 3 visits in as many days. Mesmerized by how things looked with the new shape my new friend bra had given, well, those things just had to go home with me to my newly organized closet.
Which brings us to today and the Silly Feet. With a shopping bag in tow, I was compelled to do what girly-girls do. I marched into the nail salon and signed up for a manicure and pedicure.
The shop is owned and run by Koreans. The sweet lady who did the job on me wasn't too adept at English. I never understood what she said to me, so I just nodded and said "sure." I obeyed her nudges and nods, not entirely sure what I was in for or what was expected of me. It turns out one of my nods upgraded me, for $20 more, to the deluxe pedicure which included a foot bath, massage and scrub, and was wonderful. It culminated with the "french" polish. My nails echoed the toes only as long as it took me to remove it after getting home (lesson learned - next time I will shake my head instead of nod).
So there you have it. I think the obsession has passed and I will be able to settle into this new form of existence without any further uncontrolled impulses. The fact I'm sitting here composing this post in my flannel - sans bra - is testament to my return to sanity.
But come tomorrow, the bra's going to work with me. Oh yes.
