I’ve always been intrigued with the Free the Nipple movement. I love the Bohemian, heavy-lidded feel of going out for brunch or complicated cocktails with nothing on but a baggy shirt or a loose shift. There’s something so unfussy and down to earth about it. It feels like it would reaffirm that, yes, I’m a woman, and yes I have these boobs. Can we move on now?
That and I really liked the idea of not being trapped by those wiry, lacy contraptions that serve no other purpose that to hide my nips. I’m the type of gal who begins to unhook her bra while waiting for the bus, so you can only imagine how on-board I was with trying out this trend.
That is, until I was actually on board it.
Going braless can force you into an emotional tailspin and — for those of us not used to freeboobing it — into a panicked inner monologue. An inner monologue that goes something like this: