I have been away for a while, an impromptu hiatus if you will. So I thought what better way to say 'I'm BAAAAAACK!!!' than a conversation about boobs?
We (that's men and women alike) have been fascinated with breasts since the day, with bleary eyes, we met the world and thus were formally introduced to the nurture giving nipple. It was instinctual in those earlier times but as teenage-dom struck, the fascination with boobs arose again; this time with a preoccupation for our own boobs, or lack thereof. I longed for their development, exuberant at their promise of womanhood and resolute in my desperate need for the supportive discomfort of underwiring to 'hold in' my fried eggs, as they teasingly became known by my Aunties.
Boobs became central to our mathematical advancement as we demonstrated our calculator dexterity through the power of eight, double zero, eight. Next when the consequences of bosom-hood were fully realised (I'm talking occasional back pain, awkward sleeping positions and the discomfort/weirdly freeing reality of running downstairs) the tetris-like difficulties of lingerie to ensemble placement became the main point of contention regarding any sort of social appearance/life.
In the age of cleavage baring - that includes though is not limited to, the midriff and belly button - fashion mocks us as we attempt to defy gravity all whilst maintaining the illusion of 'I woke up like this' ease. As ever, the Kardashians' deserve a mention for their seemingly unsupported boobs in their backless and often frontless ensembles. And despite intense scrutiny, I can spy no strings!
The recent Met Gala saw those fully clothed as the minority on the red carpet, as J Lo, Beyonce and Kim Kardashian-West all took to embodying the 'if you got it, flaunt it' philosophy that Robin Thicke made a (contentious) case for in his infamous 'Blurred Lines' video.
For a time the side boob became the new toe-cleavage, but it was a way of life that I did not entertain. Too much of a high risk situation. Of course there was always boob tape, and duck tape and cement if desperate, but the alien breeze to the south of my armpit acted as a continual reminder of my all too delicate dalliance with potential full exposure.
Temperature too factored into my non-negoitiable avoidance to going braless, as who needs a thermostat when you have nipples? Without going into detail, vigorous dance moves are not conducive to keeping stick on bra, well, stuck on. There is no way to make a chicken fillet chic - FACT. And then there is the strapless bra. I see this as the equivalent of riding a rollercoaster with your arms up in the air, for the whole journey. You know that you're strapped in so in theory you should be safe but all sense of reason, not to mention gravity, is screaming for you to hold on for dear life.
So what is the answer? Well, I am about to propose something radical. A bra is oftentimes necessary, so why not make it an accessory? It was an idea I have yet to completely warm to - I'm tepid about it at best if I'm totally honest - but Carrie Bradshaw may have just convinced me that backless needn't mean braless. I'm seeing contrasting straps in my future, maybe multiple straps masquerading as some kind of harness looking thing a la agent provocateur, I'm seeing experimentalism (though thong exposure and VPL will not be tolerated under any circumstances). Though what I'm not seeing is any kinda of Regina George/superhero, underwear over outwear appropriation, but as Beiber continues his 360 away from his jack-ass ways, I guess I should 'never say never', just perhaps don't mention it to my dad...
(Images via: perezhilton.com, hollywoodlife.com, style.catalogs.com, kalifornia-klass.tumblr.com, images.sugarscape.com)
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