IYKYK… The bra coming off is not just a physical act. It’s a declaration. It’s the moment the day is officially over. The second that band unhooks, and the underwire drops to the floor like an exhausted soldier, so does my will to be a contributing member of society. You want me to go out now? After that kind of release? Be serious.
Look, I love my friends. I really do. I want good things for them. I want them to live their best life. I want them to have fun and make memories and post blurry photos with an aggressive flash. I absolutely want to hear all the latest gossip and find a reason to dress up and rock some cute heels. But I cannot go anywhere with you tonight. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m busy. But because- and I need you to hear me clearly- I already took my bra off. I’m horizontal, or at least at a wonky angle on the couch, and I’m currently in my “no bra, no plans” era.
Don’t get me wrong. I thought about going. I played out the whole thing in my mind. I imagined myself, showing up in a cute outfit, being charming and social, ordering something with a fancy rim. I even entertained the idea of “just one drink”. Or maybe hosting a girls night with candles and themed cocktails. I envision myself dancing in the kitchen, making little charcuterie skewers yelling “just one more glass of wine!” In reality? I’m sideways on the couch, with my hair in a messy bun, ignoring my girlfriends in the group text saying “Let’s plan something!”. My idea of “hanging out” now involves a shared meme, emotional eye contact, petting my cat, and going to bed at 9:47.
There’s a certain peace that settles over you once the bra comes off. A stillness. A freedom. You stop sucking in. You can arch your back, hear the bones popping but it’s all good. You stop caring. You start leaning into the couch like it’s your forever. Snuggling up with your favorite blanket. Your skin can breathe again, your mood softens and your standards for fun shift dramatically. Suddenly “hanging out” means scrolling your phone in silence while your TV asks if you’re still watching.
And yet, there you are, texting me, saying, “Come out! Just for a little!” and here I am, replying with seven crying-laughing emojis and a vague “Maybeeeee”, knowing full well I’m not even getting up to wash a dish, let alone drive anywhere. The truth is, if the bra’s off, the answer is no. I’m locked in. I’m sealed like Tupperware. My emotional jeans have already been folded and mentally returned to the drawer.
And mind you, this isn’t about being antisocial. I want to hang out. I complain about it all too often. Telling my man that I need more of a social life, or maybe even “I have no friends”. I just want to hang out from the couch, with snacks, or maybe a bowl of cereal, in total silence, while we both look at our phones and only talk during commercials. I want connection, but from a distance. I want to make plans that we all agree not to keep. I want to feel included without leaving the house.
So no, I can’t go out tonight. I already took my bra off. I’ve entered the scared space. And the only way I’m leaving now is if there’s a fire – or if you’re bringing fries and emotional support in the form of wine and a weighted blanket. Otherwise, I’ll catch up with you in the group chat.
So if you’re reading this and we haven’t hung out in a while, just know:
I still love you. I’m still here.
Life is throwing monkey wrenches at me daily and sometimes getting home and taking off that bra is all I need in life. But if you ever want to talk about nothing for 2 hours while laying under separate blankets on opposite ends of the couch…
I’m your girl. But don’t call me. Text me.
With love, and no underwire.