THE BRA’S BIRTHDAY. Now there is something to celebrate, sisters. And a centennial birthday, at that. Imagine: 100 years have gone by since the first American woman said—now repeat after me, sisters—“How in the world am I going to these into that?” Oh, yes, sisters, let’s light some birthday candles and throw a few bras on the pyre, since it’s a birthday you don’t want to miss.
The first American patent for a bra went to Mary Phelps Jacob, a rich young woman who grew up in Manhattan, Connecticut and Westchester. Her father rode to the hounds. And merely thinking about her doing that in a whalebone corset is all I need to know to understand how the phrase about necessity being the mother of invention came to be.
It seems that Mary grew up to be full-figured, and that it was not such sandlot sporting events such as staying in the saddle that provided her the needed inspiration. No, it was the big-league sport of mating, as acted out in dressing for yet another ball that did it. And so, 100 years ago, when she was 19 years of age, Mary took things into her own hands, and with two silk handkerchiefs and some pink ribbon, lifted, separated, and forever changed the balance of things. And with that she earns herself a place in our TSP sister history division, called Sisterpedia, of course.
Her patent, officially received in 1914, was for the undergarment known as the “Brassiere,” taken from an old French word for “upper arm.”
Mary, we salute you. And when we salute you, we hope like hell that we are wearing one of our few bras that does not rise up when we do. Because when that happens, well, we tend to rant.
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I just discovered that Victoria’s Secret makes a racerback bra. Not a sports bra but a light, little underwire number. It comes in all sorts of lovely colors. Very comfortable (I had to buy one). Maybe they decided to celebrate the bra’s 100th birthday?
Hiya, Sandy. What a great find, particularly since I love all those shirts that require those bras and only have one bra that works under them. Thanks, sister. Maybe it is a birthday celebration. Who knows? But I’m off to get one. Please come back soon for more.
Well if a happy birthday is in order I won’t pout or pooch out at the sides. However, the trauma of buying my first bra at 11 is still a nightmare that free-floats whenever I need to obsess over something. The old woman with the steel-shrouded front jutting at least fifteen inches from her waist took me into the dressing room. I wasn’t worried about dying from fear because I was pretty sure her perfume (Shalimar – I still can’t risk the smell and need to change seats at the movies) would do the job alone. That tape measure seemed a mile long and when she wrapped it under my armpits and pulled tight, I screamed out loud bringing my mother on the run. “This child can’t be fit in the teen room,” she accused my mother for her inept use of Bloomingdale’s shopper’s guide. “She needs to be in women’s corsets.” These words brought me to tears as I saw my days 0f catching frogs to hide in my brother’s bed fade before my reddening eyes. It took another week for me to summon the courage for the trip to bountiful (corsets) that ended prophetically with my first six hook number replete with ringed stitching that shaped my young offerings into sharp cones. Technology improvements have laced me in rounded cup underwires and one strapless bra that resulted in a blood clot. I suppose I am better off with Mary Jacobs help and thank her sparingly. So happy happy Mary, although I might be more enthusiastic had you posited the gifts of gravity and left me happily to droop. Which, by the way, happened anyway.
Hi, Donna. You have the gift of making trauma read like comedy, and the sisters love you for it. I suppose we are better off for the help Mary gave us, though we, too, are not always sure. Thanks so much for sharing in the birthday of the bra.