I have been bra-free for about four months, possibly five. I don't remember the exact moment in time I stripped away the ever-abrasive cups and decided 'never again.' I am unsure of the day I decided that my bust-harnesses caused more harm than good, and that my back felt better once I allowed myself to sway like a hammock on a Barbados coast.

I do recall that I did research on the under-breast muscles. Like anything else, they need to be worked out, and bras take away the strength-building of those muscles. If they are supported all the time, the ligaments weaken.

I have less back pain and have even experienced a "lift" of sorts when it comes to my breasts. And I am saving a ton of money by refusing to cage them again. I realize that there is an innate privilege in this: though I am a large-chested woman, I may not be of the size that needs bras. The underwire is there for a reason; it is the saving grace of many thousands of women and female-presenting persons.

There is also less modesty without a bra. I have to say, being cold announces itself quite visibly. It can draw attention, which is unwanted, but I have reached the I No Longer Care stage of my twenties. Look at me while I get my tofu out of the refrigerated section; gasp and clutch your pearls when I am forced to near you in the pet food aisle. Uphold me to your children as an example of a unscrupulous, slutty person -- I really don't care.

This works for me. It does not work for everyone. Not everyone is going to be all right with unbound bosoms in a culture that rates women on appearance and decides what measure of "respect" to grant them based on how they dress, speak, and comport themselves.

I am simply tired of the chafing, the snapping straps, the tangled back hooks. I am frustrated by being literally stabbed in a reverse-Caesar way by the wires I charged with the responsibility of boob guardianship. I am done reading fifteen thousand articles about how I need a better bra. Better bras come with higher prices, and I would rather have a Roomba. And undershirt freedom.

Am I more enlightened because I divested myself of a bra? No. Have I achieved One-True-Feminist status in ridding my body of a classic patriarchal symbol? No. Am I mostly lazy and thus suffering from a deep weariness of endless sizings and money drained away every time I go bra-shopping, dolloped neatly on top with a smidgen of rebellion? Yes.