I’m running late to arrive early. I live in LA now but still go back to the burbs of Orange County to see my friends and take care of business. On this occasion, business is an orthodontist appointment. I want to arrive with fifteen minutes to spare, to brush my teeth and relax a bit before the mouth probing begins. At this rate I’m cutting it close to “on time”, which can quickly sour to “late” thanks to overcrowded and accident-prone freeways.
My lunch, a leftover slice of pizza and a banana, is packed in my tote. I didn’t have time to eat before hopping in the car. Shaky with hunger, I decide I’ll eat my fruit en route. “Eat a banana like no one’s watching.” I chuckle to myself, envisioning how odd it will appear to munch on a banana while sitting in traffic.
It’s hot today. The AC is still broken. I’m wearing a thick cardigan with black jeans. This outfit was perfect in my drafty apartment; less so in the oven-like car. The next hour will be thoroughly unpleasant.
Actually! It won’t! I have a t-shirt in my bag for my workout later. Perfect, I’ll change into it before I turn onto the freeway. I grab the shirt. I’ve unbuttoned my top. I’ve extricated my arms from my cardigan and then - the light is green. It’s time to turn onto the 405. I panic. I’m only wearing a bra.
Were I an extremely confident driver, and skillfully agile person, I could likely slip a t-shirt on while driving sixty five miles per hour. As it goes, I am neither of those things. Terrified of blinding myself for the few seconds it would take to pull the shirt above my head, then wincing at the idea of accidentally binding my arm in a sleeve, I ultimately decide to abort the mission. Without the armor of a shirt or sweater, I sit there uncomfortably in my bra, zooming down the freeway.
This is awkward. Then I realize - who the hell cares? Bras are tops now. Dua Lipa often performed in a bra and baggy sweatpants in her early career. Zoe Kravitz donned a golden bra, paired with a long skirt, at an Oscars afterparty. Megan Fox saunters around with her boyfriend while sporting a bra and jeans.
The differences between these ladies (poised, at various public events) and myself (sweaty, driving on the freeway) are vast. For one, I’m missing the glamour factor. Then there’s the intentionality of it all, and the resulting gaze involved. The aforementioned gals wanted to be seen strutting in their brassieres. I, on the other hand, don’t particularly care for my fellow freeway riders to see my (admittedly, perfect) boobs.
Shoulders tense, I continue to visualize the various statuesque individuals in their bras. I cannot create glam where it doesn’t exist. What I can try to channel, and build upon, is confidence. Perhaps not the confidence it takes to sing in front of thousands at a festival, or walk a red carpet with hundreds of photographers scrambling to capture my image, but enough confidence to simply not care. To wave away what other people might see, might think, or how they might react.
My stress dissipates, along with the spiral of overthinking. Traffic is light so the ride is fairly smooth. I listen to my favorite podcast and laugh. At one point, I even eat my banana. “Spotted,” non-existent LA Gossip Girl inevitably writes, “saucy shirtless female seen south bound on freeway, enjoying phallic fruit in the fast lane.”
I’m relieved when I notice I’m arriving with ten minutes to spare. I pull into the lot and park on the side of the building. Having reached a euphoric level of comfort on my topless joyride, I feel an unmistakable tinge of disappointment as I put on my shirt. Alas, I don’t think my newly liberated bosom is welcome in Dr. Nguyen’s office.
I stand corrected!!!! Funny and thanks for the hot pix!