The year I was to turn 50 I had plans. Big plans. I was going to get my first manicure. I was going to run my first marathon.  I was going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro with Joni on her 50th birthday. Then my hips and joints started getting cranky. My budget for international travel seized up.  I forgot about the manicure. Instead, I had a party with 50 friends. And after that, I did it. I bought my first padded bra. 

I’m not exactly sure how it happened. It wasn’t premeditated. I was traveling and ended up  in a department store, slinking undercover through the lingerie section—-never quite sure I belonged there. I was going to repay my husband for Mr. Momming for the week I was away with a sexy little something. The bras beckoned, usually  the foreign import section for me—-objects of both fascination and repulsion. I had never worn one. They looked like foamy harnesses, and they came in the same sizes as batteries, an astounding range, from  little tea cups to Italian restaurant size bowls. But no size was my size. (Even batteries come in AAA!)  But on a little end rack, I found it. A sexy little number that looked small enough to fit.
  I’ve worn sports bras most of my life. Not the fitted ones,  only the stretchy, fill-as-you-can  kind.  I’ve felt their power all these years. No matter what I was wearing on the outside, underneath I felt sporty, ready to break into a jog or an aerobic routine at any moment. And sometimes I did. My bra inspired me. I’ve always taken pleasure in my boyishness and the freedom it brought. I’ve felt like Peter Pan all these years, refusing to grow up, my flat chest proof I was still young, nubile and mobile.

 Which brings me to another point about breasts. Mine may be less ornamental than others, but not many have enjoyed the same utility. Mine have fed people—six, actually, and grew them from mewling newborn to stalwart near-toddler, a full six years logged on these breasts, boosting closeness, intelligence and  immunities—a whole string of benefits conferred from my milk-rich low-fat deposits.  

 Despite our culture’s unflagging obsession with breasts,  I’ve never felt insecure about mine,  except one year while a freshman in high school. Breasts were so much in demand that year that tissue-stuffed bras became something of a norm, a trend I joined while hoping for nature to course along its usual hormonal highway. But I soon gave up on the venture, especially after my tissues crept unbidden out of my shirt one day in plain view of the boy I  had a crush on. When I saw his eye wander downward, I should have simply yanked out a tissue with a flourish and blown my suddenly stuffy nose, winking seductively like, “Are we girls inventive creatures who can stow the most necessary items in such mystical places?"

 But this new bra, all foamy and thick, plush in just the right places , is leopard spotted.  I wear it nearly every day.   I wear it so no one will notice me. If anyone thought to comment on my new look, they might say, “There’s a middle-aged woman in a polka-dot blouse” instead of, “There’s a middle-aged woman without any breasts.” I look better in my clothes, I discovered.  My blouses don’t bag in the front. My waist looks slightly smaller (a new interest since menopause is snuggling in.)  I like it. I think breasts are a good idea. I’m happy to be able to strap some on when I want them. And I’m sometimes relieved to take them off.

 I think I’m beginning to understand why women want breasts. Most women have them anyway, and since  it’s one of the major ways we’re distinguished from men, why  not celebrate and even exaggerate the distinction? Why not dress to highlight the obvious?   (But then, that next step, why  not have my body cut open to insert little baggies of salt water or silicon . .. ?) I’m not a total dunce. I know it’s about power, and sex, all that.  I remember that kind of power.  In my twenties, when I traveled alone, men would try to flirt with me (me, in my rubber band bra), angling for a number, whatever they could extract.