My Boobs, the Patriarchy, and a $5.99 Shirt
Because getting dressed is never just about getting dressed — ask my Nippies.
I loved her flamingos, her shades of pink, and most of all her loose, flowy fit. I met her on a clearance rack a few years ago. She was only $5.99 and she was definitely coming home with me.
Later, after examining her more closely, I realized I’d missed a tiny hole while I was busy falling in love at the store. Hence the clearance tag. No matter. A couple of stitches later, no one would be the wiser.
I wanted to wear her everywhere, but every time I reached for her, I found another reason not to. What if I got cold? Menopause—that petty little gremlin—had turned me into someone who could need a sweater in July depending on which way the wind was blowing. Then there were the less practical reasons. My shoulders looked too bony. My skin too pale. My neck too... wrinkly.
Funny how the weather was never the actual issue.
This weekend, her time finally arrived. We were in the middle of a blazing heatwave, the hottest weather I’d ever experienced. When I slipped her on, I considered trying something different.
No bra.
I looked to see how shrunken my girls appeared. You could barely tell they were there. They seemed perfectly content to stay out of the spotlight. I bent over to make sure neither was planning an unscheduled appearance. Still good. No free show.
As I stood there inspecting myself, a memory floated up. Another house. Another husband. Another time I wore spaghetti straps.
Back then my boobs were just past their prime after birthing and breastfeeding three children. They hadn’t packed up and left yet, but they were definitely considering a new location further south. That day I wore a worthless strapless bra, that spent the entire evening sliding down while I kept shimmying it back into position.
Later my husband casually mentioned that one of his friends, who’d been visiting our home, had quietly asked him if I was wearing a bra underneath.
Until then, I hadn’t realized anyone had been evaluating my body. I thought I was simply wearing a summer top. Turns out I’d been unknowingly entering a panel discussion.
That awareness has never completely left me.
Standing in front of the mirror all these years later, I realized I was still anticipating the same judgment. I’m sixty-three now. By this age you’d think I’d have earned a lifetime exemption from caring what strangers think of my breasts.
Apparently not.
Some part of me still imagines an audience. Men, certainly. Women too. Plenty of women carry water for the patriarchy. Some days I suspect I’ve been volunteering.
The flamingo top wasn’t really about the flamingo top. It was simply this week’s version of a negotiation I’ve been having with my body for decades.
The negotiations don’t stop with bras. Oh no. My forehead would like a word. So would my jowls. And don’t even get my neck started.
Most mornings I stand in front of the mirror conducting what can only be described as a performance review of my face.
Lately, I’ve been watching videos created by a plastic surgeon who critiques celebrity cosmetic procedures.
“Look at the length of her forehead,” she’ll say, measuring the distance between a celebrity’s eyebrows and hairline with one finger. “See how it’s longer in the after photo? That’s aging, not the surgeon.”
Or she’ll point to someone’s eyelids.
“See how little lid skin she has now? I would’ve done a brow lift instead.”
After enough videos, I’ve become surprisingly qualified to diagnose myself.
Botox on the forehead.
A little filler in the cheeks.
Maybe an eyebrow lift if money were no object.
But then there’s my neck.
She never talks about the neck.
I must learn more.
In another strange twist—because apparently I contain multitudes and at least two competing personalities—I also spend time following women who are aging naturally. Women who let their white hair grow, reject the endless messaging that they’re no longer enough, and seem completely uninterested in apologizing for the passage of time.
They’re the women I want to become.
Apparently, I consume both kinds of content with equal devotion, as though one day one side will finally win custody of my brain.
One writer here on Substack, Skylar Liberty Rose, put words to something I’d only been circling. She wrote about wanting the polish of a woman who’s had “work” while also longing for the freedom of a woman who hasn’t. (Click to read A Sea of Sameness: Why Our Polite Silence is Killing the Pro-Age Movement.)
She questioned whether staying silent about these contradictions—not wanting to judge another woman’s choices, not wanting to seem vain ourselves—is just another version of the Good Girl script.
Wow. That got me.
Even my silence had been performing. I can’t not follow the script.
So here’s what’s true, unglamorously.
I didn’t get Botox.
I didn’t go braless.
Turns out courage and nipple confidence don’t always arrive on the same day.
For the next time I flirt with going braless, I bought Nippies from Amazon—tiny adhesive circles whose entire job description is to let a sixty-three-year-old woman wear a flamingo top without negotiating with a strapless underwire.
They’re less a fashion statement than a cease-fire.
Not full surrender to the bra. Not full defiance either.
Just a woman who’s spent decades bargaining with her own reflection, hoping to spend a little less of the rest of her life arguing with the body that has carried her this far.
Did you miss last week’s Substack Live with Sean Chavis? Don’t worry! I got you. You can watch it below.
Ilona Goanos: I hope to remain on the right of propriety when I say, the Pictures of you on this platform show an engaging, pleasant woman. You have no reason to worry about yours looks at all.
In 53 years of marriage (55 together with Nancy), I am blessed with a woman of deep goodness, whom I trust implicitly, and whose beauty captivates me (makeup or no makeup and in any of her chosen clothes) like when we first met.
Nancy is still that full personality of the fragrant breath of fresh air that blew miraculously into my life, freeing me 55 years ago. Nature did not make me to be a single man.
As my wife has aged with me, she remains my whole Heart and Love, the more beautiful for her life's experiences.
If a man had made the disgusting, belittling physical remark your then-husband had reported, the one hearing about it would not have been my innocent Nancy, but his (the erstwhile "friend's) ears would be ringing from my admonishment of my well-loved wife's dignity and right to privacy. He would not have made the same mistake twice!
At all stages of life, a girl, a young woman, a maturing woman, a fertile woman, a woman going through cycles, a woman during and after changes, an older woman, and a quite aged woman -- A girl, a woman is a wondrous Work of Nature who is sovereign in her own Agency and Freedom, who does not have to answer to anyone about her choices in clothes or how she looks.
I am truly sorry you weren't surrounded by positive reinforcenent, for a woman can always take pride in herself at any stage of life and wear what-the-hell she wants.
As a friend and fan of "Pebble in your Shoe," you are a really good, thinking person, and your thoughts enrich us, for which I always feel thankful.