“They name them, they compare them, they spend quality time readjusting their trousers. I haven’t seen many women turning their breasts into secret best friends, even those who wryly refer to them as “the girls.” For most of my life, I have considered my breasts to be fully satisfactory: they fed my infant children and were remarkably useful in bed. That measured approach was reflected by my lingerie drawer. By my twenties, it held a motley assortment, unadorned cotton mixing with silky bits of ...lace, designed for nights in which someone might want to tear off my lingerie with his teeth. Those bras were the Mapplethorpe photos of my bra collection: labeled “explicit” and reserved for special shows guaranteed to inspire a heated reaction. Over time, marriage, and—regrettably—cancer, my wisps of lace and satin disappeared through attrition, gradually replaced by sports bras, nursing bras, and the frightening “mastectomy” bra, which has all sorts of inserts. After my breast reconstruction, I became obsessed by organic cotton bras, as if excising synthetics from my wardrobe—as my cancer had been excised—would make me a healthy person, organic from the outside in.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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