“No-o-o-o-o-o!! We want to be f-r-e-e-e-e!!” My girls screamed in terror as the saleswoman whipped out her yellow tape measure and began strangling them.
My girls and I have always been the best of friends. We’ve had fun together as we danced at weddings and bounced along golden beaches. We’ve enjoyed the suckling of our newborn daughters — and their father. We’ve consoled each other after our slicing-burning-poisoning fight with cancer. Nowadays they’re happy not-so-little campers just hanging out with my belly button and the fluffy pillow within which it rests. Every now and then I stand in front of the mirror and cup them – one in each hand – and juggle them as we discuss the day’s events. My girls and I have a great time together.
“Mom, you have a beautiful waistline now, but no one can see it buried beneath these mounds of flesh. It’s like your shoulders are expecting a flood and their sandbags are in place.”
My daughters were on a mission to redirect my nipples – who for years have looked comfortably down on my perfectly pedicured toes – and point them dead ahead like little divining rods dragging me to the bank account of their future stepfather.
So there I was– on my first visit to the Big Apple. Was I in Central Park surrounded by the beauty of one of the most photographed parks in the world? Was I in Times Square being dazzled by all the glitz and glamour I came to New York to see? Was I atop the Statue of Liberty looking out over the foyer of the land of freedom – the dream destination for so many of the world’s oppressed?
No. I was in Macy’s “Ladies Intimates” preparing to oppress two of my oldest and dearest friends.
“Hell no! We won’t go!”
“Hell no! We won’t go!”
My daughter chose a Wacoal – according to her, “the Cadillac of bras.” Yeah, right. A little black Vespa would be more accurate. It was lacy, fragile and very nothing-looking. I was having difficulty imagining it as an effective sling shot, much less a DD boulder-holder. That was before two of the nastiest, most vicious-looking underwires imaginable surrounded my girls and threatened to hoist them into position just beneath my ears.
“Just stuff ‘em into the cups, Mom. I’ll hook you up.”
And as my daughter Mel grabbed the back and yanked it into place, my girls made one last desperate plunge for the floor.
“Born free. as free as the wind blows.
As free as the grass grows…”