My First Bra - An Auntie Jean Story

My Auntie Jean knew how to laugh. Not the polite laughter of someone struggling to find amusement in the midst of life’s foibles, but the true gut wrenching, tear streaming, peeing your pants laughter of someone who knew how to find beauty, glee, and hope even while drowning in heartbreak. A fan of Lucille Ball and Monty Python, Auntie Jean found humor in the inane, in the ridiculous, and in the ordinary. However, I think nothing amused her as much as the human body. Body shapes, bodily functions, and body cycles provided hours of entertaining and, to my prepubescent self, embarrassing discussions. Ironically enough, these embarrassing discussions have led to my fondest memories, not only those of Auntie Jean but also of my adolescence, and all the awkwardness it entailed, while also providing me with life long laughs.

Gangly, boyish, and flat best describe my physique at the age of twelve, and at sixteen for that matter. However, despite my lack of womanly charm, I craved the curves that so many of my friends and classmates were quickly developing, including my best friend, and Auntie Jean’s daughter, Valerie. Periods, pubic hair, and bras were regular topics of conversation amongst my girlfriends. I listened with a growing sense of excitement and horror as my friends, including Valerie, talked about first kisses, fondling in dark movie theaters, and hickies. Topics my friends’ parents generally avoided were openly discussed, and laughed about, in both Valerie’s house and in my own. Therefore, it was no surprise when one day while having a ladies day lunch (which included myself, my mom, Auntie Jean and Valerie) the topic of breasts arose.

Breasts are not a subject individuals usually discuss over lunch. They are definitely not a topic individuals usually think to discuss while enjoying a fondue lunch at The Melting Pot in downtown Berkeley, California. However, there the four of us sat with breasts on the mind. How my breasts, or Valerie’s breasts, crept into the conversation I do not recall, but in the course of conversation, our desire for, and need for bras arose. It was becoming uncomfortable to play sports, embarrassing even. Boys were starting to notice the non-bandaged mosquito bites beneath our shirts. Many of our friends were wearing bras and were beginning to talk, to distinguish between wearers and non-wearers. We were ready to be women! Our mother’s were ready to joke, jab, and most importantly, embarrass! However, recognizing our need, formulated a plan for the remainder of the day.

At the time, my mother was a student at The Pacific School of Religion, which was a part of the Graduate Theological Union a collection of 9 religious schools in the area. Conveniently enough the Graduate Theological Union Library was located in Berkeley, a short distance from The Melting Pot. It was here that we speedily traveled, all the while listening to Auntie Jean and my mother crack jokes about “training” bras and “training” boobies.

My Auntie Jean carried a purse, or “pocket bag” as she liked to call it, similar to that of Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. If you needed an item, she would shuffle through the apparent chaos and very nonchalantly present you with that item. She believed in preparedness for all events, even, I believe, natural disasters. Therefore, it was no surprise when, upon entering the library and being quickly ushered into the ladies’ room, Auntie Jean, ever the seamstress, rummaged around in her bag and presented us with a tape measure. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Auntie Jean then instructed Valerie and I to lift our arms in order to take our measurements and determine our bra size. Our laughter echoed off the tiled walls, disturbing more than one library patron in the process. Our business complete, we hastily exited the library, embarrassment apparent by our red faces and nervous giggles.

I was, and still am a very modest individual. I have never been comfortable with showing inordinate amounts of skin, or accentuating my body with skimpy or tight clothing. It was not until college that I owned a bikini and even then made it a point to wear some kind of cover-up unless working on my tan. The public display of women’s undergarments in department stores made me squirm in discomfort. I may have wanted cute bras and panties, but I did not want the world knowing how intimately those flimsy pieces of material were caressing my skin. Walking into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s department store while my mother shopped was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as choosing items for myself; especially, when men, women, and children were passing by on their way to buy innocent sweaters, jeans, and turtlenecks! As much as I wanted a bra, I did not want to display the fact that I was wearing one.

Therefore, imagine my horror when Auntie Jean and my mother ushered Valerie and I into the intimate apparel section of Macy’s and in concert hall crescendo inquired of the dour faced sale’s lady where the “training” bras were located.  My horror turned to utter mortification when that same dour faced sale’s lady insisted on measuring Valerie and I again, in the middle of the sales floor, in order to accurately check Auntie Jean’s measurements and properly calculate our sizes.  As I stood with my arms out to the side, and praying no one I knew happened to pass by, Auntie Jean and my mother proceeded to examine our available choices. Holding up each bra the two of them loudly exclaimed, “Isn’t this adorable?” “Look at the cute little pink bow on this one!” and, “This little one has a cute little pattern.”  It was becoming increasingly clear that this was a game to the two of them, a very fun game called Embarrass My Daughter!

At this point, I was beginning to regret I had even mentioned bras, much less purchasing them. I began to truly lament this very ladylike endeavor when Auntie Jean and my mother insisted that we not only try our favorite bras on, but also model them to see how they fit and how they made our molehills look beneath our shirts. Usually very particular about my clothing, I ceased to care. I remember grabbing three or four bras amongst the continuing hilarity of my mother and Auntie Jean, quickly trying them, subjecting myself to the commentary and critique of the adult ladies, and prepping for a quick exit.

My embarrassment during this event was very real! However, as I sit here recounting that day, I cannot help but also remember the joy, amusement, and love present. It is a day that Valerie and I talked and laughed about for years. A day my mother and I still recount. A day, that Auntie Jean, if she were still here today, would retell in full detail with eyes full of mischievous amusement. It is a day that is forever branded in my memory, not only because it was a milestone in my adolescence, but also because it was a day spent with the woman who taught me how to laugh despite my embarrassment! A day spent with the woman who had discovered the true meaning of mirth. A day spent with Auntie Jean.