Earlier this year, a French doctor announced that women are better off without bras. Now, I know some women are quite fond of their bras, or feel the need for a bra. Cool. Keep on rockin’ the harness, ladies.
However, I read the article and said, “Well, no shit. Bras are stupid.”
I have always hated bras. I feel stiff and restrained. Tied down. Strapped. Saddled. Shackled. I scratch and claw, twisting and reaching, trying to bite at it – much like my cat when someone is foolish enough to put a collar around her neck.
That said, I’m going to tell you that there is one benefit to binding your boobs.
When you move to France, there’s a whole laundry list of things that a person must do in order to obtain their carte de sĂ©jour (their residency card). One of those things is to get a chest x-ray to make sure you don’t have tuberculosis. So, back in 2006 when I was jumping through all the necessary hoops, I showed up for my appointment to have my x-ray done.
Fully aware I’d need to be topless for this, I whipped off my t-shirt and get down to business. I sauntered on over to the spot where the lady told me to stand as if I strolled around topless everywhere. I stood in front of the wall opposite the x-ray machine like the lady told me to. Then she grabbed my hair.
“You have to tie this up,” she said, attempting to pile my fine, straight hair on top of my head.
“I don’t have a tie. Sorry.”
She reached for a hair clip that was fastened to the wall with a piece of boingy, springy cord and clipped my hair up to the top of my head.
“You must be closer,” she said, gently pushing my face up against the wall.
Standing there, with my head tethered to the wall and my face smooshed up against it, I didn’t really think much about how I had my girls out. The whole scene was too awkward and funny to waste it being worried about my boobs being seen by everyone in the room.
A few minutes later, I strolled out of there with my hair down, my shirt on and my x-rays tucked safely under my arm, confident that for the most part, my topless shenanigans were now behind me.
Fast forward about five years. I was horribly ill for three months. Long story short, do not eat sandwiches from convenience stores, even if you feel like you’re so hungry that your body is digesting itself, your stomach is wrapping itself around your spine and you’re in the middle of nowhere… just DON’T.
My father-in-law, who’s a doctor, did his best to help me. My regular physician tried, too. They both said it was likely that my intestinal flora had been destroyed and would take time to recover, but they wanted me to get x-rays of my digestive tract. Just in case it was something worse. (It wasn’t. I’m fine.)
Olivier and I showed up at the radiology lab, thinking it’d be easy. In and out. They summoned me into the back room where the magic happens and my partner in crime came with me, because that’s what a partner in crime does.
I hadn’t been expecting it, but of course, I had to take my shirt off. It hadn’t even occurred to me that this might be a good day to wear a bra. “Fuck it,” I thought to myself, “This’ll only take a minute and they’re just boobs. Who gives a shit.”
A minute later, it was done. I reached for my t-shirt. “Please, not yet,” the technician said. I also needed to get an abdominal ultrasound. Okay. Fine. Whatever.
Another technician shows up and the three of us enter a smaller room. The technician and my husband in their fancy fucking shirts; me looking like the shirtless drunk redneck at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert.
It turned out this technician was a bit of a Yankophile (or Americaphile, if that makes you happy) and wanted to speak English. He was interested in talking about the U.S., asking questions about different things in different states.
Laying on my side, topless, with some weird, cold, goop smeared all over my torso, I played it cool and acted like this was totally normal. My husband remained standing behind the guy, trying not to laugh.
“You come from where in the U.S.?”
“I’m from Colorado,” I said.
“Oh, there is a very bad drought there, no?”
“Indeed, it does get quite dry. There isn’t much moisture there.”
“I have read that Las Vegas has a terrible drought,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the ultrasound image of my bowels.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s in Nevada. I don’t know much about that.”
He turned and looked at me. “But it’s not near Colorado? It’s not the same?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “It’s close. I guess it’s pretty dry. I think I watched a documentary about it once.”
He seemed to approve of this. He pointed to the screen and told me everything looked just fine. Then he pointed to the poop inside my body, which would soon come out, then to my shirt. “Okay, we’re all finished,” he said, walking out.
Slipping my t-shirt over my head, I said to Olivier, “I really need to think about getting a bra. Just one. For things like this.”
“You don’t have one?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged. “I don’t think so, but it’s bad enough he’s showing me my own poop. I don’t need to be an exhibitionist on top of that.”
After a few more incidents like this one, I went out and bought myself an ugly-ass, full-coverage grandma brassiere from Decathlon, which is where we also buy most of our athletic equipment. Yes, I went to a sporting goods store because I’m not good at bras. Obviously.
Whatever. Bras are stupid.
A few months later, I tweaked something in my shoulder. I figured that I might’ve pinched a nerve or something while working out. But, just in case, I decided to take advantage of my awesome French health care and went to my doctor to have it looked at.
For the first time, I strapped on my hideous boob harness. The entire car ride to the doctor’s office, I twisted and turned, clawing and pulling at this tortuous device chafing up against my skin. But, I tolerated it as best I could. I wasn’t about to do my topless saunter this time. This time, I was prepared, dammit.
I explained my problem to the doctor, who responded by asking me to sit on that paper-covered table.
“Okay, if you could just lean back,” she said, while poking and pushing on my shoulder. Then she pulled lightly on the strap around my shoulder. “I can’t feel the shoulder and muscle with this. Can you remove it?”
Fuck it. Bras are stupid, anyway.
Actually, pants and shirts are pretty ridiculous, too, but… that’s a subject for another day.
Related articles
How did I not know you had a blog? I’m losing it. Glad to find you, Jacki 🙂 So cool you’re also in ModPo this year!