Loyal Readers: I wrote the following post for mom.me.  When I write for that site, they judge me based on number of views.  So if you want to read my bra story (because it’s funny!) please do, but if you don’t have time and want to help a girl out, just click on the mom.me link at the end of this post and it will count against my total.  This is the world we live in now.  Print is dead.  Long live clicks!  Thank you and now back to the blog.

When I was 13, I was desperate to wear a bra, even if it meant stuffing an A-cup with toilet paper to compensate for my flat chest. These days, all I want to do is remove my bra. Desperately. Sometimes I can’t even wait to get home and I’ll whip off my bra in the car (using the same through-the-sleeve trick that Jennifer Beals employed in “Flashdance”—it’s magic!).

I am blessed with reasonably perky, smallish boobs that can hold their own without much support. The only things getting in my way of total bralessness are my nipples, which can turn a conservative outfit into a wet t-shirt contest just by saying hello. So I brave the bra, even though I hate it, for many, many reasons:

1. The underwire is trying to kill me – I’ve heard men complain that they feel choked by their neckties. Well how would they like having a wire bound around their solar plexus? My bras cut off my circulation and make me short of breath, like some turn of the century woman in a corset. I don’t know if this is a fluke of my anatomy or a poor fit, but decades of bra experimentation have done nothing to solve the problem.

2. They’re itchy – Even the smoothest, lace-free styles irritate my sensitive skin, making me claw at my back like a self-grooming monkey. Very attractive in public.

3. The straps give me back fat – Naked, I look okay. Stick a bra on me and all of a sudden there are weird pockets of flesh oozing out the sides. Maybe my skin is just trying to get away from my bra? (see #2)

Continue reading at mom.me…