I saved my last bras--one black and one white sports bra. They were over a year old and were stretched to the point of barely being functional. Every time I thought about replacing them I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was waiting for top surgery. Buying a bra would be admitting defeat, putting surgery off even longer. I continued to wear them and wait for the day.
The other day I was cleaning my studio and found them stuffed in a Strawbridges bag deep in the bottom of a box. When I pulled them out to look at them I thought I'd feel something. Some memory, some pain, some tears pushing behind my eyes, but I didn't. So often the objects I expect to hold meaning simply don't while those things that seem completely mundane are impossible to let go. Instead of meaning, these bras just looked like tattered, smelly bits of fabric. I rolled them back up and put them back in the bag and box. I don't need to save them but I still can't throw them away. It has been so long. Maybe I just need to wait for the memory and meaning to hit me.
I have heard of a lot of guys ceremonially burning their last bras, but I never felt the need. I guess I preferred to just wait for them to disintegrate. Like my bras, the person I was before I had surgery didn't go up in flames, but slowly changed, morphed and eventually became the person I am today. The woman slowly degraded and the bras will as well.
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