On and Off

Off and On

The day long ago when I paused during a run, reached inside my shirt, whipped off my bra and stuffed it in my pocket issued in a new era for me. In those days, before the advent of running bras, my straps were forever making distracting, uncomfortable trips from my shoulders down my upper arms rendering this particular piece of underwear embarrassing and useless.

That day I began a slow decline into the ranks of those who don’t wear bras at all. Now I wear one when I think I should, or—more accurately—when I think someone’s going to notice that I haven’t got one on. Given my druthers, I’d never wear one at all.

My history with bras goes back to the time I first clamped one on at age 12. My nine-year-old brother, sensing my discomfort with this indication of oncoming puberty, marched himself across the street.

“Libby’s wearing a bra,” he announced to the neighbors after he made sure I was close enough to hear. His words were enough to bring me to tears in front of the older childless couple who’d become my friends.

I have a history with underpants, too, though it is not related to the running life and goes back even further. The students at Mrs. Herrington’s private school in a London suburb knew me as the new kid--an American with a weird accent. I had a hard time understanding them as well so we didn’t talk much.

I was small for my age and not accustomed to wearing a school uniform. I struggled with French and algebra, subjects unheard of in an American third grade and in which I was expected to “catch up.”

 For me, lunch-time has always ranked right up there with the worst things about moving. Not having a ready-made group of friends to eat with can make you feel as awkward as a tall blonde alone in a bar in Osaka, Japan.

At Mrs. Herrington’s we lined up in the cafeteria to get our food. There I stood one day, shortly after my arrival at the school, tray clutched in both hands, when the elastic in my Carter’s cotton undies gave out and gravity took over.

Before I could squeeze my legs together to avert the inevitable, my drawers lay at my ankles for God and all those proper English children to see. I froze. I didn’t drop my tray and grab for my pants. I didn’t yell for help. I didn’t do anything.

Amid kid giggles, the nearest teacher, a stern-looking one, disappeared and returned to hand me a length of string. “Give me your tray,” she said. “Go to the ‘baarthroom’ and see what you can do.”

I fumbled around as best I could to tie up my britches, wishing I had a safety pin. My re-entry into the cafeteria was a character-building moment of my life.

Even today I buy underwear carefully, avoiding skinny elastic. And I don’t leave home without safety pins, needle and thread.

No one’s going to catch me with my pants down, on the road or at lunch.