The day I got boobs, I couldn't wait to get my first bra. It was pink with a little rose in the middle. Dainty and frilly...nothing like me. I'M A REBEL!
It was 1972, the year of equal rights and feminism. I was twelve, a young girl moving toward womanhood. I still played with Barbie and obeyed my parents. But, that was all about to change...I got boobs!
Along with my new and improved boobs came a monthly visitor. Can you imagine my horror when I had to walk into a small country drugstore and place a putrid shade of pink over-sized box of feminine pads on the counter?
Mortified and beet red, I snatched what would become my constant companion for the next thirty-something years off the counter and ran out of the drugstore. That's also the day I became a closet feminist.
At the tender age of twelve I vowed to burn my bra and forego womanhood. Of course I couldn't literally burn my bra, so I decided to stop wearing it. My mom went on the warpath and I rebelled against bra wearing.
From menstrual cycle to menopausal crazed, I burned my bra in celebration of the woman I became the day I turned twelve and the woman I am at 53.