EAST VILLAGE WEEKLY - Oct 3, 1983
It’s strange how much can change in a decade. Ten years ago, the idea of burning bras felt like a protest, like some grand, defiant act against the tyranny of spandex and metal clasps. And yet here I am, poised in front of the fireplace, lighter in hand, ready to immolate my wife’s entire collection of undergarments, all because it feels like something that should be done. Is it liberation? A cry for attention? Or just an elaborate way of avoiding my tax returns? Hard to say. But what I do know is that in the grand cosmic ledger, bras represent a kind of human absurdity that demands ritual sacrifice. It’s not personal, but perhaps it is, which makes it all the more impersonal, if you think about it.
Now, don’t misunderstand. This isn’t an act of rebellion against my wife, whom I adore and who only mildly tolerates me in return. No, I am merely a man of principle—flimsy principles, but principles nonetheless. My wife, bless her heart, has no particular opinion on the matter, which makes this both easier and harder. I mean, how am I supposed to justify the burning of an intimate item when the very person whose intimate item it is doesn't care either way? It’s a dilemma only a man with an abundance of free time and a shortage of social awareness could truly appreciate.
And so, we find ourselves here: she, ambivalent about my so-called crusade; I, determined to see it through, even if I can’t remember why I started. If burning these bras makes a statement, it’s one I don’t entirely understand, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important. In fact, the less I understand it, the more it feels like it must be profoundly significant. This is a principle that applies to most things in life, really: the meaning of a thing grows in direct proportion to our confusion over it.
There are, of course, practical matters to consider. Bras don’t burn easily—there’s something in the elastic that’s surprisingly flame-resistant, which you would think would be a positive feature but in this case presents an obstacle. Also, the smell, which can only be described as "synthetic sadness." I’m not entirely sure what I hoped for—maybe a clean, righteous flame, the kind you imagine in ancient, noble sacrifices. But instead, it’s something sad and chemical, like burning Tupperware, and it only seems to mock the grandiosity of my intentions. It’s as though the bras themselves are refusing to participate in the act, which, now that I think about it, makes me respect them a little more.
Some might say that burning a collection of bras without one’s wife’s direct consent borders on lunacy. Perhaps it does. But consider this: isn’t marriage itself a form of shared madness? We willingly enter into an arrangement where one person can spend an entire afternoon liberating themselves by torching another person’s undergarments, while the other person sits in the next room, reading the Sunday paper, quietly pretending this is normal. This, to me, is the true beauty of marriage. And so, when I say I’ll be burning my wife’s bras, with or without her permission, I don’t mean it as an act of rebellion against her. I mean it as a testament to our relationship’s deep, impenetrable, blissfully absurd understanding.
In the end, whether I burn the bras or not seems increasingly irrelevant. The act has already taken place in my mind, and perhaps that's all that matters. Because, when you get down to it, maybe all of life’s big decisions—burning bras, getting married, buying a house, eating at a new restaurant—are ultimately irrelevant. But that’s precisely what gives them meaning. Or, if it doesn’t, it might. And if it might, then who’s to say it doesn’t?