I have been acting flaky ever since I ended my relationship with the homosexual man. Maybe it was the shock, the emotional weight I had to bear, the loneliness and overeating, or maybe I simply should not mix alcohol with my current medication. Regardless, I have been completely out of sorts. Normally I would not consider hazy thinking and peculiarity atypical Mindy behavior, but Sunday afternoon was a rare exception. On Sunday afternoon I tapped into the crux of my instability and insane tendencies. On Sunday afternoon I did the unthinkable.

It was a beautiful day, and I was looking forward to taking full advantage of living in New York City: a walk in Central Park, a visit to my favorite fruit stand, a stroll through the Met, some window-shopping on Madison Avenue. . .

I took a nice, long shower, threw on some clothes, kicked out the half-naked man sleeping in my bed, and I was on my way. It was on Seventy-second Street and Park Avenue that I began to notice the stares. Now I am used to men staring at my breasts and smiling in appreciation. I have endured the cattle calls, the lip licking, and even the formal thumbs up sign, but the looks I was receiving that afternoon were of utter terror and disgust. What was going on? I continued to walk and noticed that the behavior on the Upper East Side seemed a bit abnormal. Mothers covered their children's eyes, tourists snapped endless pictures, construction workers were salivating, and grown businessmen were openly weeping. Then, as I stepped off the curb to cross the street, I felt an inexplicable sense of dread (actually it was just the painful thump of my breasts hitting my naked skin), and I realized- I LEFT MY APARTMENT WITHOUT A BRA!

In order to understand the full impact of my actions, I must acquaint you with my breasts. They are both massive and modest, intimidating, yet accepting, and they are getting old. They used to be full of energy and life (happy, peppy, strong, and healthy), but somewhere between my twenty-first birthday and my twenty-third, they fell into a deep sea of depression. They do not seem to enjoy life anymore, they droop unconditionally, and lately (no matter how securely I bind them in dresses, tank tops, and bathing suits) they have found escape routes to the public eye.

I can read your mind. All of the women who also have large, life companions are thinking, "The subway steps, the walking, the rubbing up against strangers, the pain, the humiliation, the perverseness of it all!" All of the women with cute, perky breasts the size of my fists probably think that flitting around Manhattan unsupported is "No big deal!" The men are not thinking anything at all because they stopped reading this article after the title line; deciding simply to picture the scenario in their heads. What was I thinking that day? "Mindy, Mindy, Mindy, you sick, sad, shell of a woman, you braless degenerate, go home! Go home and cover up you low-hanging, nipple-showing, unsupported slut!"

Now as I sit here finishing a bag of Kit Kat Bites, clad in a comfy sports bra, I realize that I should not be so hard on myself. I now comprehend the pressure my breasts (and the rest of my body) are under every day. I am a single woman living in New York City. Every public appearance is an opportunity for companionship, sex, and procreation. Every time I leave my apartment I am supposed to look sexy and adorable, independent and domestic. I am supposed to extend my naked hand while it shouts out "hold me, decorate me with shiny objects, let me firmly grasp your rock-hard buttocks," I am supposed to open myself up, both physically and emotionally, in hopes of mutual fornication, and, most importantly, I am supposed to wear a combination of under-wire, nylon, spandex, and Lycra so powerful, that it transforms my natural, floppy, frontal endowments, into round, perky, lovable bosoms. Therefore it is no surprise that, on Sunday afternoon, I decided my breasts (although as happy as newly paroled convicts) should remain publicly imprisoned. It is no surprise that, on Sunday afternoon, I began to slouch my shoulders, and that the bounce in my step was defeated by insecurity.

Now as I sit here, starting a new bag of Kit Kat Bites, and still looking hot in my sports bra, I reminisce about all the good times my breasts and I have shared. The shocked faces of those that witnessed their famous "post-bra removal bungee jump," the looks of awe we received for the biblical parting that occurs when I lie of my back, and the thrill of breaking the law together when I shoplifted items into my cleavage. Now please do not misunderstand. I am not implying that all women should burn their undergarments and run through the streets of NYC, and I am not advocating the use of ones breasts to successfully shoplift (though try it once, for fun, if you have not done so already). I am simply attempting to embrace my natural shape. I am convincing myself that-as long as I am not in loads of physical pain- I should be proud to be single and braless in the city.

I am walking home from the subway after a late night comedy show and I am not wearing a bra. I performed stand-up comedy braless! I am about a block away from my apartment when the man sitting on the corner yells out, "Nice tits!" Normally I'd scowl, slump my shoulders, and loathe New York City and all its men, but not tonight. This is New York City: the center of it all, the most accepting, up to date, hip, wonderful, food-filled city in the world, and one should never skulk down the street like a pimple-faced adolescent. There are certain things you should never do without a bra (stair climb, jump rope, tap dance, operate heavy machinery), but walking with confidence is not one of them. I am single, I am braless, and tonight my breasts and I are walking with a bounce in our step.