I used to love to dance—ballet was my favorite. Between the classical practice music, high buns and mandatory black-leotard-with-pink-tights ensemble, I was in love—everything about it was just so graceful.
And then, like a record screeching, my boobs interrupted. The thick leotard I was wearing—the one that flattened down my breasts—was suddenly no longer enough. Suddenly, my entrechats were followed by a “bo-IINNG!!” once my heels hit the floor, my breasts reverberating in almost cartoon-like fashion. And across-the-floor—a drill in which each student jetéd across the room, one by one—became an exercise in humiliation: Less developed girls looked on in (what I perceived to be) horror, or they snickered together in the corner.
I quit ballet shortly thereafter. My excuse: I was advancing into Level Four, which required I get into toe shoes, and the idea of bleeding feet made me squeamish. But the chief excuse: I was uncomfortable wearing my (now necessary) sports bra to class. One, it didn’t completely hold me in—I wanted the equivalent of an Ace bandage across my chest—and two, sports bras were out of the ballet class’s dress code, making an uncomfortable situation even more so.
I’m not sure if all ballet classes are as Draconian with their rules, but instead of quit dancing altogether, perhaps I could have simply found a less traditional school and of course, the sleekest, most inconspicuous black sports bra on the market.
Tags: bra, solution, teen