I have found myself talking a lot about Jennifer Aniston’s nipples recently. They keep creeping their way into my conversations, which of course has nothing to do with my joy at doing an impression of them (literally just pointing my fingers out from my bra and charging like a bull). I think she is the best example of a woman rocking a nipple. She does it in a chic way, not too sexy, more casual, in a ‘lounging around my wicker furnished house’ kind of way.
“Oh don’t mind me, I’m just a nipple,” they say as she poses on the red carpet for the same movie she has been making for the past ten years.
“Whenever you come home there are bras everywhere,” my twelve year old sister said to me the last time I was back in Ireland. Sure enough there was my bra, hanging half off the couch beside me after being pulled through my sleeve the minute I got into the house.
‘Oh if only I had the nipple confidence of Aniston so I wouldn’t have to live this constricted life in the jail of bras’ I often think to myself while staring out at the moon from my bedroom window in a long white nighty, nipples in full flight.
And then there’s Lena Dunham’s contribution to nipple freedom, whose fine pink flesh is now a household name. If I could wear a bra in life as little as Lena Dunham does on Girls, I would be a happy boob-owner.
In work we end up talking about boobs an awful lot, and have noticed that when a group of girls talk about their breasts together it is almost impossible for us not to grab our own or have a check down our top as we sigh “I don’t think I’ll ever know what size I am!”
We were informed by a breast cancer survivor the other day that the side bone of your bra shouldn’t be resting on the breast tissue or it can encourage cancer cells. We all immediately started feeling our side boob frantically, wondering out loud what is breast tissue and what is just plain back fat. That was the cue for the male employees to leave the conversation.
Well, atleast I now have an excuse for unhooking my bra and flinging it out of my sleeve the minute I get into the privacy of my house. Because I may not have the confidence to rock an Aniston nipple, but I have no shame in visitors to our flat finding a pile of discarded bras behind couch cushions or on top of book shelves.
I think that is level one. And like Tom Cruise with those Scientology folks, Jennifer Aniston is on level 100.