I am such a naturally repressed person that it's a wonder that fruit doesn't just go ahead and juice itself when I walk by.
Though this tendency was bad enough when I was fourthe time I was first called upon to sing in publicit had grown much worse when I was 13 and my need for a small brassiere (can't type bra...can't...) could no longer be denied.
The need had become crystal clear, at least to me, at the eighth-grade semi-formal dance, to which I wore a scratchy dress sewed with love and starch by my mother. There I was, dressed in her lovea cotton-poly prairie dressand no support garment. I came home with unspeakable bosom-chafing. For the next week, I made no sudden turns.
By the next year, I was on the varsity cross-country and track teams, and if there is one thing a serious runner cannot do, it is cup her nubbins in her hands as she runs warm-up laps.
I don't knowand don't want to knowif there was some sort of intervention between my coach and my mom behind my back, but I soon found myself the owner of the world's plainest bra, which I then safety-pinned to the inside of my yellow singlet so that no one would ever see the straps.
More than two decades have passed, and I can count on one hand the times in my life I have shopped for replacement underthings. You are more likely to find me at the dentist's office than in the dressing room with unspeakably personal garments. Unless there's a sale, because my natural cheapness is a force more potent than my natural repression.
This is why Lucy, Alice and I were in a small dressing room last week while I tried on a half-price bra. Yes, I would have preferred to try it on without their editorial comments, but I mention again my natural cheapness. Have you paid a babysitter these days?
I was in the midst of deciding that I would, in fact, purchase the unmentionable item when Lucy said something I did not expect.
"Mom," she said, "I want a bra."
My jaw unhinged itself. She's 8! Then she tried on the one I was planning to buy. She modeled it both with and without shirt, studying her reflection in the mirror.
I decided not to embarrass her by pointing out she has nothing yet to put in a bra.
"So, um, do you feel ready for one?" I said.
"Yep."
"Well, OK then," I said. I paid for my new purchase and marveled at the way repression is apparently something you don't pass on to your kids.
Lucy's interest in a bra lasted precisely as long as our walk to the parking lot.
"Mom," she said. "I've changed my mind."
"Changed your mind?"
"I don't want a bra anymore."
I was expecting her to say she would wait until she really needed one. But, as usual, I expected wrong.
"I would rather have a detective suit," she said.
"A detective suit?"
"A detective suit."
At home, she drew a sketch of the suit she wanted. Black jacket, black trousers, black hat and a jaunty blue sash. She also drew herself a little something a detective might wear at night.
Since then, she's reminded me of it several times. There has been no more talk of Lucy wearing a bra, which is sort of a shame, because we live in a world where it is easier to find tiny bras for little girls who do not need them than it is to find detective suits for girls with mysterious dreams.
But I can handle it. And, worst-case scenario, my mom still sews her heart out. This time, though, I'll make her use 100 percent cotton, because even if repression isn't hereditary, I'm pretty sure chafing is.
