Push Up– Freestylers
'Miss! Miss, wait up!' It takes a few seconds before I realize the Asian lady that comes galloping from across the street is actually shouting at me. Did I drop something? Worse: did I drop something on top of her, or – worse still – on the unborn baby inside of her? Will she sue me? Suck me dry for every penny I’ve got in years of tedious law suits to come? Start a random rant on how the lord will smite me unless I repent, now? Or is she about to ask me for directions to MoMa? I hope it is the latter. I happen to know the directions to MoMa, and to many other cultural spots in the city. I like when people ask me for directions, especially in midtown. It makes me feel all born and raised like, quite the local, and that always makes me smile.
I hate, on the other hand, when overweight unfunny guys wave tickets in my face and ask me if I like to laugh, especially in midtown. The dumpy, sad looking comedians hang around on the corners of the Theater District attempting to sell overpriced tickets to their ever underwhelming stand-up comedy shows. They think if you like to laugh, you’ll probably laugh during their routine. Not because their routine’s funny; they hope you’ll be laughing anyway because, well, you agreed that laughing is what you like to do. You said it yourself! An easy crowd guarantee.
'What cup size bra are you?' the lady asks apropos of nothing, jabbing a well manicured finger in the direction of my left boob. I involuntarily take a step back; the lady takes a step forward. We do an awkward little shimmy while she continues her request for information concerning the extent of my chest. 'You’re a C, right?' The lady frowns in a business-like manner as she peers beyond my collar bones.
– 'Uhh...' Strangely, rather than thinking, What the hell lady, that’s none of your fucking business and would you stop staring at my tits already (which would undoubtedly be any local’s response), I wonder why today of all days is the day that I am wearing a Victoria’s Secret Wonder Bra, roughly translating to: What You See Ain’t What You Get. I’m not a C cup. I’m not even a very convincing B, really. You can’t will these things to happen, you know. Boobs, unlike noses or ears, or wild goldfish, just stop growing at some point. So, in order to look like the real boobilicious deal, every now and then I fake it all the way. My push up bra is heavily padded, leaving no trace of nipple or natural boob other than the cleavage that was never there before.
When I bought my push up bra at Victoria’s Secret on the Upper West Side, I walked past the racks and into the strangest bra I’d ever seen: a fully padded super-push up with fabricated nipples. The bra was a set of boobs in itself: anatomically correct, only softer, and machine washable – and instantly turning any flat-chested waif into a succulent work of nylon nipply goodness. I imagine the Nipple Bra is for boobs what a Ferrari Testarossa is for small penises. As with the car, the trick with the bra is to make it look casual, like you were born with it.
The idea behind the manufactured nipples is to give off the impression of not wearing a bra at all. Your own nipples – never cold or animated again, being buried in layers and layers of polyester – are cleverly replaced by a set of durable synthetics. A fine, clean-cut (nobody need be offended, since they're fake!) way to show off nipples. And, since they’re not real, there is no longer any need to be a prude. Off to the wet white t-shirt contest it is. Don’t forget to pretend to be embarrassed when your polyester pinheads come poking through.
A few blocks from Victoria’s Secret is another lingerie shop, a mom and pop two-rack type of setup donning a rather moldy selection of bras, except for a small section of sexy undies in the back: four or five different body stockings with the top half of the boobs cut out. So yes, if you wear them, your bosoms are lifted much in the effect of the fake nippled Wonderbra, only in the brandless bra your actual nipples are exposed. The weird thing is: the nipples on the girl that covers the wrappings of the brandless underwear are photo shopped out. In the land of the brave, girls are encouraged to show off fake nipples whilst hiding their breasts as they pretend to be bra-less super women, but you cannot show the real nipple in a picture of a girl wearing a non padded bra.
Strangely enough, this means that today, hordes of women end up covering up their nipples in order to show them off, only this time around in a collectively accepted way. Our first generation feminists must cry themselves to sleep at night. I bet the new and improved pads don’t even burn when you set fire to them; they probably just fizzle out. Or melt into an unyielding block of constrained boob.
Meanwhile, back in the Theater District, I am fully aware of how sensitive my situation is. I am caught in a conundrum. What am I going to tell the Asian lady poking at my padded chest? Bluff and say, 'Yes, I’m a C thank you very much, and by the way, stop staring at my god given sin pillows?' Or fess up that my (granted) luscious cleavage is merely the result of a thoroughly cushioned front, and feel like an idiot? Lie and spit in the faces of all the women who dared break out of their corsets, annihilating the right to physical self-determination my mum and her entire generation fought so hard for; or be genuinely exposed in front of a total stranger? The lady is obviously looking for the truth. But can she handle the truth? Of course, there is always the chance she’ll notice my unnatural lack of nipple and reveal me for the raisin smuggler (as my friends so delicately put it) I really am. It’s a tough call.
The lady notices my discomfiture, but mistakenly attributes it to her inappropriate question rather than my inner post feminist struggle. 'Donna Karan is coming to New York and I am supposed to dress her for an event. I roughly know her dress size,' she starts explaining. 'But her pr people never told me her cup size. All I have are red carpet pictures, but those are all taken years ago.'
– 'Oh,' I sympathize, 'And she put on some bacon over the years?' I sort of know who Donna Karan is – well, I know that she designs clothes and that she’s pretty old. I’m guessing she let herself go. And good on her, too. She’s probably sick of wearing her own size zero line year in, year out. Time to relax and start wrapping up the rolls in something XL-ish bought at a shop sporting the words Plus Size and Fashion over the door. Or Tall Couture. Modern European Designs.
'No, no, no!' The lady looks at me in disbelief. 'She lost a lot of weight over the past few years!' How could I not know this?
'Anyway,' she decides to let this one slide, in all probability because I thought most of my response inside my head and didn’t say it out loud. 'I’ve been looking all over the city for someone to match her body type, and I think you’re about her dress size so if I know your cup size I can finally get her some bras.' I feel strangely flattered. Donna Karan and I share a dress size – after she lost all that weight. Not bad! Then I remember that I haven’t a clue what Donna Karan looks like. She might have been a true rhinoceros in her day, slimmed down just enough to be considered for a stomach bypass surgery.
And just like that, the idea of being taken for a big boobed girl is just not as attractive as it was before. 'I’m not a C. I’m just wearing a huge bra. Push up. Makes me look way bigger than I really am. I’m a modest B, or maybe not even, trust me!' I blurt out. Feminists be damned; I won’t be mistaken for some fat chick.
