A "Loose" Woman Decides It's Time to Get Decent

On a bright, sunny October Sunday in 1981, my husband and I were tooling along the Delaware River Scenic Drive on our way to our Pocono hideaway for our honeymoon. At some point, he looked over, smiled and said, "Hello, Mrs. Sicilia." I smiled back, and replied, "Well, hello, Mr. Sicilia." A few minutes later he looked over and said "Where's your bra?" I barely avoided whiplash as I spun and stared at him in disbelief. "I haven't worn a bra since I met you seven years ago!" "Well, yeah," he said, "...but now you're my wife." I glared at him with a fairly respectable evil eye for a "medigan" and said "If you think you're going to turn me into some little Italian housewife, you can turn this car around right now." Another moment of silence passed, and he reached over, grabbed one of the "girls" and said, "I was just kidding."

Yes, I was one of Gloria Steinem's minions, discarding the bondage of male-oriented society in the early 70s, donning a bra for decency's sake only when I went to work. Quite frankly, I never had much to put in one, and they were cute, perky things that didn't really need support. As the years went on, they did increase in size, but unfortunately only because the rest of me did as well. The only up side was that I finally had cleavage! Sometime in the mid-80s, I started wearing camisoles to work instead of a bra because the ones that I could actually close in the back had cups large enough to encase my butt! My poor Little Suzies were literally Lost in Space.

After a lumpectomy and subsequent lymphectomy in 1996, I now had scars, and that side of my body was very tender. I never again attempted to wear a bra.

Last August I engaged in a weight loss program, and after loosing almost 40 pounds, recently bought a "few new things." When I tried on a slinky knit top I got from QVC, I realized that not even a camisole would make this top decent, and that a bra was necessary. I packed it up for return. But then I decided that I really liked that top, and perhaps it was time to rein in the puppies. I told myself for years that it didn't really matter as long as I was comfortable and they didn't hit the floor. With my weight loss, the boobs were the first things to go, and what was left seemed to sag a bit more than before. So, I bucked up and had my shell-shocked husband drop me off at Lane Bryant to try on bras. When I told the saleswoman I hadn't bought a bra in 35 years, she said, "Ooh, girl, let me slap you!"

I was there a freakin' hour! They only carried one brand, and in no universe was I the 46D the saleswoman measured. Plus, she tried to sell me underwires because she said she "...wanted me to have some support." Support?! For WHAT, I exclaimed. And with my scarring and tenderness, even if I did need "support," underwires were out of the question. I also found I had the same problem as before -- the bras that fit around my upper chest left my breasts floating in space, and the cups collapsed when a sweater was donned. I was damn near in tears, and left there to find my hubby, who had desperately needed to use the facilities for half an hour, fuming in the truck.

"Take me to Sears," I said, which was just across the street. "You can use the bathroom there and I can see what bras they have." Well, I found Sears to have a much larger selection of bras, and after half an hour, actually found a Bali that fit, in a 40c. (Don't get excited guys, it's all proportional to the rest of me.) The cups are still a smidgeon big, but they're molded, and there's no wire. Thirty-four dollars! I couldn't get over it. The last bra I bought was $3.99 at the underwear factory at Lake Wallenpaupak.

I went home, put on the garment with the knit top, and felt like the woman in the commercials who exclaims that her bra "Lifts them up!" I actually saw that I looked thinner and like I had a waist with my girls properly corralled and supported, they were even, and no one could tell which one was smaller! I am still only wearing it when I leave the house, and ripping it off when I return, but my long suffering husband of 29 years is now happy. He finally got his little Italian housewife. (Well, not really, I just let him think so.)