A couple nights ago I went to my high school reunion. To begin with reunions are pretty awkward: experiencing a solitary night of friendship with people you chose long ago not to stay in touch with? Yeah... My big complaint, however, was that reunions are only fun if one of your former classmates has gained a shit ton of weight and now looks like he/she has his/her own gravitational pull. Unfortunately, I'm that classmate. But I bet no one noticed it too much since I was fat in high school too. [*Fist Pump!*]
It wasn't that bad though. I had fun being intentionally vague about my future plans, drinking way too much, and laughing at some boys who grew extra hands when drunk and others who took the reunion's open bar as an opportunity for a nice long sob.
But the most memorable part of the evening was hands down a hug I received from a fellow classmate. I don't remember it because of the poignancy of a reunion of two dear friends, but because of the dread I felt when I saw her coming in for a hug while completely and utterly (and obviously) akimba.
I feel like this is something we should have covered in our 12th grade ethics class. I don't understand how someone can graduate from a high school that required community service to graduate and yet still be such a sadistic person. Because, yes, not wearing a bra in public is indicative of a deeply flawed character. And even if your only sin in life was going in for a hug while in a state of akimba, when you die you basically shouldn't be surprised if you see Hitler where you end up. And I don't say that as a chauvinistic male who doesn't understand how good liberating yourself from "male-imposed shackles" feels, but as an actual, honest-to-God woman with actual, honest-to-God boobs of her own.
I also felt betrayed. When I showed up at that party, I willingly suspended my disbelief in the appropriateness of hugs. Up until that moment that night I was allowing myself to be hugged by one and all, regardless of fondness, gender, or body odor. And that bitch just waltzes up in a paper thin tank top with no bra, and embarrassingly obvious nipples that stuck so far out that they seemed to venture into next Thursday, and she goes in for a hug. I feel like I was taken advantage of. When I made the decision to allow hugs that night, I did so under the assumption that people would be properly clothed (that is, boobs/penises/butts/vaginas all neatly tucked away behind appropriate layers of clothing). And she basically wasn't wearing any damn clothing on top. Who does that in public, besides the French? It's like fuck, Rebecca! If you're not going to take this seriously then let's all just go home now.
Look though, I'm not going to judge. If you want to go braless in public, fine. It's kinda the same with bananas. I hate bananas, but if you want to eat a banana, go for it, but don't shove it in my face and make me share it with you. Or if you want to systematically murder the Jews, fine, but don't drag me into it. Because that's exactly what not wearing a bra and hugging innocent civilians is like.
I hope in five years, when the 10-year reunion rolls around, I'll be braver. Or maybe I'll have a fiancé standing by my side or even just a few more glasses of wine that make me just strong enough. Because in five years I don't want to just stand there awkwardly and allow myself to be hugged by someone else who envelopes me in her horrifically unrestrained boobage. In five years I want to have the strength to stop that girl and say, "Put a goddamn bra on, and THEN we'll talk." My fiancé will then turn to me and say, "Well said, honey. That girl was like Joseph Fucking Stalin." And I'll know I picked a winner.
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