Dear Friends with Boobs,

There I was. On the red carpet at Lincoln Center. My boss and I had produced a pre filmed segment for a Gala event. 

There were movie stars and celebrities everywhere. 

And my boss and me. 

I was 22 years old.

When he told me I was going with him I was thrilled and immediately drove four hours to and from Hartford to filch something dressy out of my Mother’s closet. 

I practiced accompanying hairdos for a week before conceding futility, but the day of I went to the makeup counter at Saks. 

I looked scarily like Joan Crawford. But time was up and there I was. 

Click, click click went the paparazzi cameras and my boss and I were whisked to our seats alarmingly close to the stage. 

It’ll take us all night to get out of here I thought, breathing shallowly in the too tight dress. 

The show was wonderful and wonderfully short. 

In no time we were shuffling up the aisle and I was still breathing. 

We entered a massive gallery and click, click, click the paparazzi were around us again. 

“Who are you?” they shouted. 

“Whose dress is that?” 

I feel my bosses’ hand clamp down on my arm as I say to them,

“It’s my Mother’s dress!”, while wondering how they knew it wasn’t my dress? 

“Oy Mashuganna...” my boss says. 

Another shout, “Your Mother’s a designer? What’s her name?” 

And then it dawns on me what they were asking. 

My boss, still gripping my arm hauled me out of Lincoln Center and down the street to some random pub. He ordered us both a double vodka. He was a really good boss. 

That was my introduction to the world of fashion. 

How could I have been that dense? 

In my defense, I have torn out every tag and label on all my clothes and I have the holes to prove it. I’m not anti-identity but those things itch me. So identifying a designer brand that fits me well is a non-starter. 

But it gets worse.

Most infuriating of all infuriators are the bra designers. 

Not because I tore out the tags (I did) but because they DISCONTINUED my one and only favourite bra I could bear to wear! 

Sugarshirts notwithstanding, what are bra manufacturers thinking? 

I know they’re trying. Try harder! 

There are all kinds of reasons to discard clothing:

1. They are old, torn or stained 
2. You’ve aged out of them 
3. You’ve sized out of them 
4. They were always a mistake

But not because you can’t find a contraption to wear underneath that doesn’t make you want to kill yourself. 

Thus is the state of my closet and the impetus to create more Sugarshirt styles.