Several years ago, a colleague and I were setting up a display table for a student event at the community college where we both worked. As I was adjusting the retractable banner featuring the college’s biotechnology program, Mona reached into her blouse to retrieve her cell phone from her bra.
Is there room in there for a cell phone? Isn’t it uncomfortable? Mona’s blouse was modest, but it was low enough to reach a hand in. Her movements drew no one’s attention but mine. Cell phones in 2015 were smaller than they are now, but still. I tried not to stare.
Mona had recently been promoted to a new department, vacating a grant-funded position recruiting students for the college’s science programs, and I was her successor. Administrators and my new boss extolled Mona’s accomplishments to the point that I felt inadequate in taking over the job. I gladly accepted her kind offer to help me run my first exhibit table. Now this phone-in-the-bra thing. Mona seemed much more sophisticated. I couldn’t imagine how I’d slip a hand in and out of my blouse without pulling off a button or rummaging through a bra cup while my phone blared “The Star-Spangled Banner” at ear-popping volume. Every eye would be on me—appearing to fondle my bosom. An ethereal booby call.
Photo by Castorly Stock : https://www.pexels.com/photo/red-brassiere-on-white-textile-3682271/
I’ve always been small-chested. At twelve, my friend Janet and I secretly pooled our money to buy a bra from the neighborhood dime store and arranged to take turns wearing it. The first time I put on the stiffly padded size 32A, I didn’t bother examining my profile in the small mirror in our family’s only bathroom. I now suspect the cups stood out like traffic cones under my shirt. My father noticed immediately. He pulled me aside, heard my explanation, and advised me to give the bra to Janet. “You’re not ready for a bra,” he said. For years, even after Dad conceded I should add that undergarment to my wardrobe, I hoped I was merely a late bloomer. I wasn’t.
Sixty years later, I realize the benefits of being small-chested and feel compassion for my generously endowed sisters. I’m more attached to my phone than to some long-ago fantasy. As a result, I often search for a place to keep my device nearby and instinctively recall Mona’s bra vault. If I’d known earlier about this creative method of storage, I’d have made better use of the space. Due to underfilled bra cups, there would’ve been room for random accoutrements, such as:
- A quarter for an emergency phone call. I kept one in my shoe, but it would’ve been easier to reach in my bra.
- Tissues for the occasional smudge or nose-blowing. Grandma stashed a hankie in her cleavage, but ugh! So old-fashioned.
- Bobby socks for filling the unused space. (Not a good look. Trust me.)
- Lipstick (bold Sassy Cherry) or lip gloss (demure Pink Primrose).
- Scrawled notes of dates and names associated with the Battle of Gettysburg. (Don’t ask.)
Last year, through an unexpected connection, I discovered that Mona and I experienced similar family traumas. Lipsticks and bobby socks are no longer important to either of us. What we now share has led to a unique kinship. I now consider her a friend … a bosom buddy.
In recent years, I’ve also discovered advantages to keeping some things close to the chest, where they’re safely guarded, where they won’t slip away unnoticed or unexpectedly throw me off-balance. Things I won’t risk losing or forgetting. My teenage bra would’ve accommodated a few childish accessories, but the authentic treasures of my life will fit anywhere, even in the sliver of bra-space over my heart. They include:
- Healing words. “I love you” and “I’m right here” top the list.
- Memories. First glimpses of our newborn children and grandchildren. That “girls trip” to Kentucky with my beloved stepmom and sisters. Hiking the Grand Canyon’s South Rim with my husband.
- Creative ideas. Despite efforts to harness them, they evaporate without warning.
- Joy. A giggling child. A butterfly flitting among the zinnias. Spicy, gooey queso dip.
- Wisdom. Not the unearned consequence of advancing age but the reward of life experiences, carefully examined.
These and other keepsakes fill my heart today more surely than my padded “lift and separate” B cups can. Each serves its own purpose well. My hard-earned lessons are more uplifting than a push-up underwire, and for middle-age trifles, I’ve got pockets and tote bags.
Janice Airhart 