Training Bra

I dragged my feet, following my Mother reluctantly through the store to the most embarrassing department. Satin, lace, silk, and cotton cups and straps hung tidily on display.

“You need a training bra.” My mother announced way too loudly over her shoulder, making a beeline past the giant, padded rocket cones.

“Let’s get you some sensible, cotton white ones. Here go try these on.” She handed me four delicate hangers laden with strappy soft undergarments. Red-faced I went to the dressing room, my fingers burning, gripping the hangers.

I tossed them down on the little shelf seat. They taunted me, You’re not a little girl anymore! You have to be bridled and broken, never free again!

I climbed into one, knowing I couldn’t escape this rite of passage. The lace itched, the hooks were impossible, and it was tight around me.
“You okay honey?” Mom barged in.
“Mom!” I tried to cover myself.
“Oh that’s too small, wow! Let’s go get a B!”

The training bras snickered. You need serious boob coverage! You’re doomed!

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