When I was probably 13, my brother gave me a beautiful monogrammed pendant. It was gold with a black face. The letters were really curvy and elegant, and I immediately said, "Oh! How pretty!" Then as I observed the necklace a little more closely, I realized it spelled out my initials in that fancy monagram way where the last initial is in the middle. There is was in its glory. My initials: bRa. A look of horror came over my face because I was embarrassed to wear a real bra at that time, much less emblazen an advertisement of one around my neck.
That bRa was worn maybe two times during my teenage years. And when it would catch someone's eye and they would say, "Oh! How pretty!" I would quickly cover it with my hand or turn my shoulder and mumble a thank you. I didn't burn that bRa, but I did mentally try to bury it.
Last night, I was quickly rummaging for something to wear to a holiday cocktail party and then a Christmas show. I wanted to look a little Anthropologie-ish, and somehow as I combed through my jewelry box, I came across my once forgotten little bRa.
I wore that bRa proudly last night for the first time in my life, and received several comments like I did the other two times I wore it many moons ago. I was also told I should wear my bRa more often.
It was an uplifting experience.
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