Friends have been asking me when I’m going to go off on the Abercrombie push-up bra for the busty 8 year olds in your life.
But I’m not.
I need to protect myself from the Abercrombie loving feminist trolls who attacked without warning when I confessed I would not, could not, shop at perfumed slut inducing stores sexualizing little girls.
Boy, did that hit a nerve.
I was hating Abercrombie long before it was cool to hate Abercrombie.
What’s not to hate? The price? The smell? The billboard advertising we pay $26, 36, 40 to emblazon across our small chested daughters to parade around school? They should be paying these kids to wear their stuff; not the other way around.
But here’s what I am going to say:
They wouldn’t be selling it if adults weren’t buying it. No 7, 8, or 9 year old has lost enough teeth to shell out the $18 for the bikini. Not if there’s Sour Patch Skittles to choose instead. And the tweens insisting on these clothes have their parents by the nutsack or boobsack; it’s the adult’s job to be the grown-up and say no-fucking-way.
It’s what parents do: PARENT.
So if there’s an adult opening a wallet to shell out the dough, there will be a corporation ready to produce it. It’s the American way. Or actually, the made in Indonesia-China-India-Guatemalan way.
So stop already.
And if the technology exists to create a bra to give breasts to someone who still sleeps with an American Girl Doll, why can’t a bra be made to keep my boobs where they used to be – rather than escaping at every given chance like the Bronx Zoo cobra. Push up, pull up, tape up, inflate up, whatever it takes. I’d buy it.