Full Disclosure: I’ve basically been braless since 1976. I’ve tried them all—push-ups, sports bras, underwires forged in the fires of Mount Doom—and yes, I even submitted to one of those awkward “professional fittings” where someone with a measuring tape and a questionable amount of eye contact tells you you’ve been wearing the wrong size your entire adult life. Spoiler: I still hated them.
Maybe it’s because back in the day, gravity wasn’t a concern. The girls were self-supporting citizens, requiring no structural engineering. Or maybe it’s just the sheer principle of being expected to strap into a chest prison every day. Either way, my position remains unchanged: bras are a “hell no” for me.
Despite holding high-visibility jobs over the years—including public speaking gigs and business travel—I perfected the subtle art of braless dressing. On the rare occasion when I was forced to wear one, I tacked on an “inconvenience fee” to my consulting invoices. Consider it hazard pay. That little surcharge paid for several strategic wardrobe additions—drape-y blouses, double-layered knits, and fabrics that say “yes, I am supported,” even when I am not. And then… a revelation.
While traveling with my fellow Split Sister and fellow bra-evader, Stephanie, we exchanged that sacred, silent look that only comes from knowing the freedom of unsupported boobs. That’s when she let me in on her secret: pasties.
She cracked open a whole new world for me. I immediately enlisted my daughter (Gen Z research queen) to dig up the best options. She returned with a magical silicone solution. These modern marvels— found here—changed the game. I’ve worn them ever since, and honestly, 10/10 would recommend. They stick, they stay, and they don’t make you feel like your ribs are being interrogated.
But. (You knew there was a “but.”)
These little silicone heroes are so comfortable that I forget I’m wearing them. I have, more than once, slept in them. (Yes, I’m sleeping solo. Yes, I know how that sounds. No, I’m not sorry.)
Last week, I reached for them as usual, but noticed one wasn’t quite clinging the way it used to. Like a fool, I ignored the red flag and pressed it on anyway—ten seconds, just like the directions say—then dashed off to a dermatology appointment.
While waiting, I noticed I was getting an unusual number of smiles. I chalked it up to being the only patient under 85. Adorable. Naïve. Flash forward to me walking back to my car and spotting one of my nippies lying face-up on the pavement. Like a fallen comrade. Right by my tire.
Nothing screams confidence like scooping your fake nipple off the asphalt in front of a bunch of guys in hard hats and pretending it’s… gum?
When I got home and looked in the mirror, one of the girls was clearly free-range. Her sister? Fully camouflaged. It was like one was on a beach vacation and the other was still at the office.
Moral of the story: Replace your pasties regularly (my first set lasted 6 months). Or at least check they’re not about to abandon ship mid-appointment. Because once you go braless, there’s no going back. But a rogue nipple cover can really ruin your exit. And to the nice man at the dermatologist’s office who smiled widely and held the door open for me while I was still mid-check out: I now know why. And I hope you enjoyed the show.
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