Karan-a-go-go

Exhibit A- 1990 No Bra

Today, after days of staring at a blank page, I have been inspired to write a poem.  An ode, even!  A beautiful, lyrical tribute to something close to my heart… However, let me first say that, aside from a few limericks and an exercise I did in a poetry workshop one Saturday, I don’t really write poems.  I used to, back in middle school when I had to deal with big issues like true love forever, but in my adult life, not so much.  Still, I feel so passionately about my subject that I am compelled to give it a try.

I made this decision following an argument I had with my breasts this morning.  I said some nasty and cruel things to (and about) them and have been feeling a little bit guilty about it ever since.  I need a way to make amends.  Really, you should have seen how surprised they looked as I hurled invective at them: their “eyes” big and round in disbelief, then narrowed in hurt and humiliation.  (Or, maybe they were just cold- who’s to say?)  I knew I was being unfair, but my frustration with them had been building for years and I was bound to expel it sooner or later. 

Quite frankly, it’s as if I have been lugging around mountains of resentment. I mean, for the past 10-15 years now, my tits just haven’t been pulling their own weight around here.  I try everything I can to make them feel good: always offering them support and giving them a shoulder to lean on… but so often they just hang their heads in despair.  Or, on their “brighter” days, their cups seem to runneth over with enthusiasm and it’s even harder to deal with them. It’s as if my boobs are bi-polar; like I have manic-depressive mammaries. They are either hiding in my armpits, afraid to see the light of day or they are all, “Look at us!  Look at us!”  (Try having a conversation with a man when that’s going on.)

 And they are so just so high maintenance. Jeez.  After 25 years of trying to dress to accommodate them, I think it would be nice not to have to dig around for a safety pin or a goddamned camisole in order to wear a wrap dress.  Or spaghetti straps- I’d like to be able to wear spaghetti straps without any effort at all.  I’d like to buy bras that are pretty without having to special order from Frederick’s or other stores that cater to “entertainers”.  I’d like to use those self-adhesive “petal” bras under my summer dresses, instead of searching in vain for a supportive strapless bra (a mythical creature if ever there was one). It all just gets so hard. Sometimes, I stop and wonder, “What did I ever do to them?”

…Hmmm…

Okay, well I guess there was that ill-conceived “bra-less” phase I went through in Los Angeles.  But, that only lasted- well… five gravity-laden years. I wasn’t wearing many clothes back then, much less undergarments.  It was L.A. in the early ‘90s: my style was inspired by the likes of Kelly Bundy and the girl from Warrant’s Cherry Pie video.  Plus, I spent most of my days poolside.  It’s hard to wear a good, supportive bra under a string bikini, you know?  Still, the boobs and I… we sure had a lot of fun in California; they seemed so perky and happy. I didn’t realize I was hurting them.

Ah, but then years later, there was the breastfeeding.  Less hedonistic than hanging out at the “clothing optional” beach in Ventura, perhaps, but just as detrimental to my bust line.  In all honesty, I didn’t realize until I had my first child that my breasts could be so damn useful.  They gave my kids FREE milk, after all.  And they were super-portable; no lugging around bottles and formula.  They calmed fussy babies.  And, if you believe the hype, their usefulness will continue to have long-lasting implications for the kids who called them home for the first year (or more) of their lives.  My bosom really looked like it was happy then, too: so full of hope and firm in its dedication to my children.  Who would have thought that things would take such a downhill turn after the nursing ended?

I guess in retrospect, I have done things to hurt them.  They needed my help, but didn’t get it when there was still time.  And I realize they did things for me over the years without asking for anything more than a strong foundation and monthly exams. They were integral in the breastfeeding, obviously, but they’ve done other things, too.  I mean, gosh, if I hadn’t had a nice set of melons, I might not have been able to buy beer and cigarettes at 14. Or gotten out of so many speeding tickets at 16.  It’s possible that I’d have been forced to participate in gym class, instead of “helping” the teacher.  Had I been less zaftig, I wouldn’t have filled out my cocktail waitress or cigarette girl uniforms and wouldn’t have made nearly as much in tips.  Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten into so many Hollywood clubs.  Or had as much fun in hot tubs.  Maybe I would’ve had to learn to change a tire or pay my own bills!  OMG… maybe I’d have had to finish college! 

What I’m saying to you is this: I see now that my breasts have served me well and that I’ve not always been so kind to them in return.  So, today I will pen An Ode to My Breasts and hope that in time (and with a little nip/tuck) they will forgive me and return to their perky, full-bodied, happy selves.  (And that I won’t get pulled over in the interim.)