If I had a quarter for every nipple attack that’s upstaged a cute top I’ve owned.. I’d be playing shuffle board on my personal yacht right now.  However, that’s no longer the case as after I turned 28 years old, my size D’s started the Great Battle with Gravity and continue to lose. Going braless is not even an option for me unless I want my boobs to have a playdate with my belly button. I have to wear double-duty bras with ropes for straps and thick cups that give me Barbie boobs and no cleavage. I know…. too much information, but just an objective introduction to understand my alliance with the featured post today (wow.. I said a lot of big words in one sentence. I’m smart.)

Anywho… we can all high-five this post by Stephanie Dolgoff, author of the blog Formerly Hot  and the book  “My Formerly Hot Life”   which is on pre-sale now (the book officially launches in August, but you can buy now by clicking on the book title!)

Here’s to rebelious nipples. Enjoy Stephanie’s story!

“Girls Gone Mild”

All I can say is that they didn’t have “nipple petals” when I was at an age where I could even consider going braless. Or if they did, I didn’t know about them.

I’m talking about those little adhesive flower-shaped thingies you stick on your breasts, presumably to prevent your headlights from showing through your top. (The banner above is from YourNippleCovers.com). I do remember being embarrassed when that occasionally happened–like when someone told the kind of story that also made my arm hair stand up–but I could never figure out why I should be embarrassed, precisely. What did the phenomenon really betray about me? That I was secretly aroused? That my mouth said no, but my nipples said yes? Not hardly. It usually happened when a cool breeze blew through.

So I’m in this store, Pookie & Sebastian, on Third Avenue, and you can’t wear a real bra with almost any of their otherwise adorable dresses. That’s a problem for a gal who is feeling the effects of gravity, has nursed twins, and, well, probably should never have gone braless in the first place. And probably should never have walked into Pookie & Sebastian in the first place, but of course I have to do that at least 30,000 times before I finally get the message.

Today’s excursion beat it into my head pretty good. I held up a cute little strappy number, and then thought aloud, “Oooh, can’t wear a bra with this.” The very blonde and tanned salesgirl, whose back was to me as she stacked skinny jeans on a high shelf, thought I was speaking to her. Without turning around, she chirped, “No, you can’t, but we have these really great…”

At that moment, she stepped down from the stool she was on, and swished her hair around to face me. Her eyes landed on my boobs.

“…nipple petals,” she said flatly, as if she wished she could inhale the words back into her throat. It was clear from her expression that she felt my nipples were beyond petals. Potential protrusion was the least of my problems. Any nipple issue that I might have if I were to go braless would be overshadowed by the fact that I was braless, and the effect that would have on onlookers. I don’t think I need to paint a picture.

She pulled her eyes from my breasts, up to my almost 43-year-old face, and smiled with a mix of sympathy and embarrassment. “Have you seen this blouse?” she said, holding up a loose, flowy peasant number. “It’s really great because you can…I mean…”

“You can wear a bra with it. I know,” I said, putting her out of her awkward misery. I felt bad for the girl. It was not her fault that I insist on fantasizing about wearing clothing that no longer looks good on me. She didn’t mean any harm.

It was clear, however, that she couldn’t fathom that someday, perhaps, she, too, might need supportive undergarments, even if, like me, she’s not particularly large. It never occurred to me when I was her age. I usually wore a bra, but if I didn’t want to, I could get away without it.

“It’s really not so bad, having to wear a bra,” I said. “It happens. I don’t mind. And if you get one that’s lined, no nipple-itis.” She smiled gratefully. I even bought the top, in a fit of wanting to prove to her (or perhaps myself) that there are other attractive ways to dress that don’t involve nipple petals, and that I’m OK with it.

I’m going to return the peasant top, though. It’s nothing special. Not like a strapless underwire bra that didn’t hurt or wind up around my waist by day’s end would be, if such a thing existed. “Nipple Scaffolding.” Someone’s gotta invent that.

http://www.formerlyhot.com/

Photo by Pescatello CC, courtesy http://www.formerlyhot.com/

The hunt for flattering gymwear is never-ending, and I know you know what I’m talking about. Few women look good in those capri-length workout bottoms that are everywhere–they make a woman look like a peg leg pirate with stubby, wide thighs–and you have to be Gwen Stefani with her rock-hard abs to pull off track pants rolled down at the waist. No one, male or female, has everlooked good in elastic-waist sweats (think overstuffed sock puppet) and those of us who have had children generally cannot pull off the low-riding Juicy Couture-style terry bottoms without an excess of abdomen splooging over the top and sides. Don’t even get me started on the roll-waist yoga pants. Let’s just say they’re only look good on women without actual rolls at their waist.

Mind you, this is not the fault of our bodies. Our bodies are fine. It is due to lack of imagination or quite possibly sadism on the part of the designers of workout wear, who simply refuse to come up with workout bottoms that keep things smooth and tucked in, so you can go exercise without feeling like a lumbering buffalo on a treadmill.

Still, hope springs eternal, and the other day, it appeared that my faith and patience would be rewarded. I was in Filene’s Basement and rummaging through the racks. Suddenly, I spotted what appeared to be the perfect pair of black workout bottoms. My heart started to pound, not unlike when I spotted the man who is now my husband across the room at a friend’s wedding. I pulled the hanger off the rack to examine them. Simple, straight cut, highish waist to contain the wayward midriff, moisture wicking material….could these be the one? Finally, after all this time, just when I’d given up hope? Maybe, just maybe, I thought, tamping down any cynical instincts that bubbled up through my optimism. I’m going to try them on.

Quickly, as if they might evaporate in my arms, I ran to the dressing room, and tore off my clothes. Sliding my feet into the pants and then standing to hop them up over my butt, I had reason for optimism. The pants went over the sometime obstacle of my rear end without too much struggle, and hit me right at the waist, so there was no overhang. They were long enough so as not to flare out unflatteringly above my anklebone, and tight only where they should be. There were no rhinestones or sequins that would clog up my dryer’s lint filter, and the price was right. SOLD, I thought, and was already planning on swinging by the rack where I’d found them to see if there were any more in my size, so I could stock up. I slid them off and folded them, and prepared to put my own clothes back on.

And that’s when I saw it: The word CUTIE, in big turquoise felt block capital letters across the heinie. NOOOOOOOO!! I shouted in my mind. If I were in a sitcom (which at that moment I felt as if I was) the word would have had that drawn-out slow-mo distorted sound, as if I was being engulfed in abject horror  (which it was!) How had I missed that? Why would anyone sew the word CUTIE on someone’s ass, even if the ass in question might be cute, which, let’s be honest, mine is not, and really never was?!? I’m not putting my ass down–it’s fine, but no one would ever sew the word FINE on the back of a pair of sweatpants, and if they did, I wouldn’t buy them. Would you? Besides, if one has a cute ass, one doesn’t need the word CUTIE on it to call attention to its cuteness, and if one doesn’t, any writing whatsoever on the butt calls attention to what is probably better left unremarked upon.

I was so annoyed I didn’t even put the sweatpants back on the hanger, and left without even the socks I’d gone to Filene’s for in the first place. I think I’m going to start working out in a skirt, like the orthodox Jewish women in my building do. They do it for the sake of modesty. I’ll be doing it as a protest.

Thanks, Stephanie!