Every once in a while, when I’m bored and trying not to obsess over my text messages (or lack of lack of text messages, as it were), I like to take a look the “Site Stats” on my blog. The stats tell me all sorts of interesting things about my “public,” ranging from how they managed to find me in the first place to which days they do their most procrastinating at work (Mondays and Tuesday, judging by my early-week ratings).
Writing a blog, however, is a funny thing. According to number crunchers over at WordPress HQ, the number one search that sent would-be readers my way was (for a very long time) “public bra removal.” I couldn’t believe it at first (seriously, bra removal?) but then I checked Google, and earlier this year, if you Googled “public bra removal,” my blog came in at number seven.
Well, I thought to myself, isn’t this just dandy?
I admit that I do talk rather a lot about removing my bra in public, and that I am excessively proud of my skills in this arena, but I’d like to think that my contribution to the blogosphere amounts to something a bit more erudite—or at least entertaining.
Nonetheless, I’d like set the record straight. As far as I recall, I have engaged in the act of public bra removal four and only four times.
The first occasion occurred during my freshman year of college. It was the night of Goucher’s annual spring formal and on account of my being Little Miss Social Planning Committee, I had scored a ticket to the upperclassman formal for a second year in a row. Several of my friends, however, had not. To commiserate, we met up at the local diner afterwards (and yes, even though I’d gotten a ticket I was miserable; the senior I’d had a crush on for a year and a half did not ask me to dance). I was wearing a strapless bra, it was poking me the ribs and as my only companions were girls and a male friend from the dance department (who had already seen me running around backstage in various states of undress) so I simply removed the offending object right there at the table and got on with my pancakes.
The second occasion was during my junior year of college when I had more male flat mates than I knew what to do with. “I don’t get strapless bras,” announced one of my roommates one evening. “How do they work?”
“Like this!” I cried, never one to miss out on teachable moment (I suppose I’ve always been an educator at heart) and even though we were sitting in a pub at the time, I was not drinking.
Next up was the time I bought one of those backless, strapless, jellyfish-like contraptions to wear with a see through blouse during my senior year in college. The saleswoman assured me that the pair of sticky, gelatinous cups would stay in place and give me cleavage but they failed miserably on both accounts. No sooner had I hit the dance floor than they dislodged themselves and were thus banished to the back pocket of my jeans for the duration of my night out.
Last but not least was a competition of sorts, possibly inspired by the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol at a quaint little pub in… actually, I can’t remember. But it was somewhere in the UK, and it took part during a weekend retreat of a religious organization that I shall refrain from naming for the sake of propriety. Suffice it to say, I won.
And so there you have it folks: here I’ve been attempting to contribute valuable observations to the anthropological canon while engaging in systematic fieldwork on the subject of online dating and my most notable contribution thus far has been that of chronicling international episodes of public bra removal.
Fortunately, I’ve taken several steps to rectify the situation (which I’ll be announcing tomorrow, and I’m quite excited about these developments so be sure to tune in) but until then, it’s your turn: most public removal of your undergarments. When, where and how? Bonus points if it led to arrest.