Today I need to write a bit more than I did yesterday to make my goal – trying to decide whether to go to Mills or not. Sometimes I HAVE to get away, and today is ideal to get out of the house because my first coaching call isn’t until 2pm. But honestly, I’m so loath to put on real clothes. Right now I’m wearing the pink wool socks that Pamela knit me (I’ve been wearing them all winter so far), my slippers, my thermal underwear bottoms, the black dress I wore yesterday (okay, and the day before that) and my black cashmere which I have whipped into shape as my cashmere of this year. Utterly comfortable. Probably a tiny bit smelly. Warm, and more importantly, strip–downable during the hot flashes that come about twelve times a day. (TIRED OF THEM.)
I’ve been experimenting with using the dining room table as an alternate office. At Mills, since I got the WiFi password, I turn off my internet when I get there. That’s how I get the work done. It struck me last week that perhaps I can just simulate that. So for a few days now I’ve gone to the table and turned off the internet when my computer hits the wood. I do my work, and I don’t have to get in the car to go anywhere, and best of all, I don’t have to put on a bra.
I suppose I’m jumping to conclusions here. In order to go outside, I don’t HAVE to put on a bra. There are no bra police, especially at a women’s college. But comfort–wise, I must, which doesn’t make much sense. At home, I want no bra. Outside the house, I can’t be comfortable without one on. Which is, of course, a direct and deep connection to the idea that my body isn’t my own when I’m outside the house, that I must be willing to let it be critiqued, that I must put on my best show. And more specifically, I can’t be seen with sagging, bouncing breasts. The idea that breasts aren’t up below our chins is offensive. And I’m a culprit in this. I am someone who notices when a woman isn’t wearing a bra, and I feel strangely embarrassed for her (something I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate). It’s hard to look away from the nipples, hard not to extrapolate from where they reside to what her breasts look like with no clothes on and Jesus, that’s an uncomfortable feeling. Why do men WANT that knowledge? I don’t want to picture people naked. I want to picture them wearing super cute clothes and darling tights or rugged jeans and Fluevogs or Doc Martens. I want them to keep their clothes on, please. And from here on out, I’m going to try to notice when I judge a woman for no bra and change my internal reaction to cheering. Because yes. Wearing whatever the hell you want is awesome.
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