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It has recently come to my attention that not everyone in America puts on a brassiere in the same fashion, thanks to a cursed tweet that came close to causing a civil war amongst the staff of Jezebel.

This simple tweet presents two methods for strapping the cans into their cloth prison—one which is correct and the other, irrefutably wrong. I am but one woman, with one pair of breasts that I have lived with for almost 37 years, but to me, a woman who is often correct and never wrong (please fact check this, I dare you), the only acceptable way to strap your titties into their daily home is as illustrate by the faceless model in red: putting each arm into the brassiere as one might a pair of pants, and reaching your little arms around the back to hook it and go.

This is the way it is done in bra shops: a stern woman with a measuring tape around her neck encouraging you to Sheryl Sandberg your breasts into the cups and adjust before locking and loading your rack into its prison for the day. Leaning forward into the bra and then hooking it in the back requires little to no dexterity; if your arms cannot reasonably perform this maneuver, then how on earth are you removing your bra when it’s fuck time? Is your wily partner doing so with one hand? I bet not, bitch, so this is the way things are done.

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The benefits of this method are manifold: once the bra is settled on your body you can then adjust your bosom as you see fit, jostling the jumbly bits around and making sure your nipples have not traveled somewhere south of your armpits or, god forbid, around the back. Once ensconced in the brassiere of your choice, you can put on a shirt and get the fuck out of the house. There you go, walking down the street, breasts secure, and ready to face the world.

While I don’t doubt that the end result of the other method is the same, I cannot stan for its efficiency nor its ease of use. Hooking the bra in the front and then swinging the cups around so that you can then work your arms and your breasts into the thing feels inefficient and also, for a brief moment, your tits are just hanging out en plein air, supported merely by the band and not the supportive torture device some women require or desire. This method, which I tried in the office bathroom while shrieking at a coworker about its inefficiency, feels like the way I might have put on a bra when I first realized I needed one: the hooks were baffling and felt insurmountable, so why not face the issue head on by literally looking at it straight in the face? Putting on a bra is like muscle memory now, but I imagine at some point in my development, I realized that my breasts would not be perky little sumo oranges and would require stronger, heartier fortifications. Hence, the method that I prefer and that makes sense: lean into the thing, hook, and jostle. Arrange the breasts as needed. Carry on.