September 1, 2000 GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE

bigtips

Hey! Where's my bra? I'll have to go all day without one

by M.T. "the Big Tipper" Martone

Is it a cruel twist of fate? The toyings of some idle god? Merely the logical consequence of my persistent absentmindedness? No matter what the cause, I am sitting here at work, living the hell of wearing no bra.

"How could you forget that most classic and essential of foundation garments?" you ask. "Should we be grateful that we've never seen you walking down the street bareassed?"

Of course you should be grateful, but that's not the point. The point is, I've been going to the gym every morning, so I don't just have to become not-naked to head out the door, I also need to pack an outfit into which to change postsweatstravaganza. This usually works out okay.

Since there's basically no distinction between my play clothes and my work clothes, I've developed a nice little T-shirt rotation that has Tuesday's work shirt become Wednesday's gym shirt. I get to dress off the floor every morning, and have fresh clothes for the olfactory comfort of my coworkers. Everyone's a winner. Or so I thought.

So the clock goes off at 5:00, and I coma around while my sweetie gets dressed to go row. As she heads out the door, I'm picking clothes up off the floor and pulling them onto my appropriate parts. By 6:00, I'm minty-mouthed and ready to head for the bus. My bag is packed, the dogs have been squeezed, and I've even taken a few moments with Biography magazine to learn what a generous soul Keanu Reeves has.

I arrive at the bus stop and eat blackberries off the bushes while I wait for the bus to arrive. I wonder how bears are able to get berries off of bushes. I wonder if Keanu Reeves has ever acted opposite a bear. It's a typical meditative morning.

The gym holds its usual lack of surprises. The goal is to get in there, get on a machine and get going before I remember that I don't do things like this. My favorite treadmill is occupied, so I go to my favorite bike. This morning I would be enjoying Black Entertainment TV. It all depends on who gets there first: Classic Movie Gal, Golf Man, or BET Lady.

There are six TVs on this end of the Y, but for various reasons, we all tend to be pointed toward the same one. I just try to get my ass there before Golf Man. Who the hell wants to walk on a treadmill while watching golf? Am I supposed to imagine I'm strolling the links at a health-giving clip? At least Carmen Miranda makes me feel like I'm just short a pineapple of being the life of the party. And BET is kind enough to pour some chunkyass girls into tight dresses and shake 'em around. Who wouldn't walk or bike toward that?

So I bike and sweat, and decide not to lift weights afterwards because I've been sick all week, this is my first day back, and I'm still kind of dizzy. (No, really.)

I drag my ass down to the locker room, unceremoniously dump my bag to find my shampoo, shuck my now clammy and reeky clothes, and stuff them in the bag. After my shower, I root through the pile of clean clothes for my . . . Hey! Where's my bra?

I realize that I had packed a pair of black tights to wear with my dress, and that screwed up my "Four Component Rule": You've packed enough clothing if there are four components, i.e. pants, footwear, bra, and T-shirt.

Footwear, tights, dress and T-shirt equals four, but that wasn't enough. Oh, no!

If I may take a moment to detail the situation, let's just say I require support. Despite that ill-advised free-swinging period in college, I've remained happily tucked

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into a variety of brassieres over the years. I pretty much started heading south two minutes into puberty, so I never had any delusions of unsupported perkiness.

Frankly, I like having breasts that appear as distinct forms, as opposed to a gradual swell in the northern hemisphere. That's why I've never been a big fan of sports bras. I look too much like I have a loaf of Wonder Bread ducttaped across my chest. Suffice to say, I'm a bra digger, and if I'm not poured into one every morning, I'm not quite sure where the girls will be by nightfall.

At this point I realize that my Nontraditional Attractiveness Quotient is even higher than usual already, because I'm a honkin' hairball. I've been revving up for a good chin waxing, for which, ironically, you have to grow out the crop, so it'll catch. The body hair conversation can wait for another day, but I'm pretty wed to losing the chin fur on a regular basis.

So there I am, shimmying into my clothes, and contemplating how I've changed in the past 15 years. Back then, when I first realized that I was beautiful the way I came, I was shocked, then I spun out. I denounced deodorant and bras and anything else that seemed to be some sort of tool of the oppressor. Over time, I reacquired most of these "tools" on my own terms. I never wore a shapeless tan bra again. But lacy black bras make me feel happy and sexy.

Antiperspirant is out forever, but deodorant became my friend again when I realized how much I loved that moment when I just got out of the shower, all fresh and pink like a piggy at the state fair. I wanted to hang on to that moment as long as possible. I wasn't dealing with chin hair then, but I stopped the mandatory maintenance shaving in college, and now allow myself the indulgence of politically unjustified chin depilation. I just like it better that way. And that's that.

So I'm a little loose in the chassis today. Whatever. It's nice to remember that this is the body that I've learned to really like, even just like this.

Burning questions? Contact me at the Chronicle, attention Big Tips, P.O. Box 5426, Cleveland 44101, or fax to 216631-1052, or e-mail to martone @drizzle.com.

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