Wow. You are very subtle.
Not really, I know you know there is marinara on my right breast. Just above the chocolate stain from last week. And I know you know I know you looked at it and can’t seem to stop looking at it.
I am not a slob.
This is how I am forced to roll.
I can’t eat chips and salsa like the rest of you. You, who accidentally slop Picante sauce on your slacks. Nothing stands between your dribble and the napkin folded neatly in your lap. It’s a straight shot.
Don’t judge me. I am not shoveling Mexican appetizers in my face with reckless abandon. I am not slurping Linguini like a 6-year-old, I use a napkin. It just never sees any fallout because of the enormous obstacles blocking the route from my mouth to my lap.
You can say you wish you had them, and whine, “Nothing fits right for me because I am small chested.”
My sternum is lost beneath a mass of fleshy obnoxiousness.
Somehow they define me. They dictate 99.9% of my day. Recently I was in a fender bender because I was behind on laundry. Having no other options, I wore a black evening push up bra. Unable to turn my head, because my neck and chin were lodged firmly in my cleavage, I hit a blue Nissan.
Interestingly enough, this excuse got me ogled by a police officer and off with just a warning.
And if you check my tags you will see I am only a 44 D.
This is the hill I die on.. or hills.
I am not going up a size. And, I am not going up in cup size either, Miss Bra “Specialist.” No, I can’t get a deep breath. Yes, my shoulders are bleeding. No, I am not comfortable. And yes, I would love to look ten pounds lighter. But, I am sticking with my 44 D.
Pride may “goeth” before the fall, but these girls would be hard pressed to fall from the lycra/spandex snare in which they are strategically shoved and maintained.
I knew a girl; she decided she couldn’t stay in D-land anymore and sought the help of a minimum wage, grad student, “BRA DOCTOR” at the mall, she came out with the diagnosis she was in fact, a Q. Yeah. Q.
So I stuff my girls into my 44 D.
Until I can afford the counseling that would accompany a diagnosis of any letter size not found in Target, I am a 44 D.
Still, within their confines I bump into walls, fearfully suck in near elevators, and revolving doors, dribble ice cream on them, and yoga is… awkward.
There are simple perks that make it tolerable. Getting out traffic tickets and some distinct privileges only afforded to the bigger busted women. OH! And sometimes at night when I take off my bra stuff falls out of it. One time after a long day of cleaning, I took my bra off and found $11.96, my iPhone, two goldfish crackers, a Pokémon trading card, and a very warm and melty Hershey’s kiss. Another time after a movie date I was blessed with five skittles, an earring, and some bonus popcorn.
Still, the struggle is real. The enormous gap in button down shirts, or worse, the popped button. And yes, I can buy a bigger blouse, but then the sleeves are too long, and the shoulders don’t fit right. Then there is the occasional blowout where the underwire can no longer withstand the pressure. The wire snaps and it is continually digging into my ribcage. No kidding, once in line at the grocery store a woman said to me, “Ma’am, your shirt is soaked with blood.” I said, “Yeah, my underwire is shanking me.” She went to a different lane.
She was “petite.” She couldn’t understand.
And you inquire, “Aren’t there are other more comfortable options than the underwire?”
What a joke, like what? The tank with shelf bra??? These girls will not stay on the shelf. A solid oak artisan bookshelf built by Amish craftsmen, maybe. But that sorry little quarter inch band of elastic with a single stitch around the bottom cannot withstand the weightiness of these chick’s chicks. What’s that you say? A sports bra? To you I say:
One night after Zumba, I ran to the library, and the librarian said, “Oh goodness you are carrying HIGH!”
- Not pregnant.
- That’s my boobs. They are heaved together and tightly constrained in an effort not to harm myself or anyone else when I shake it out to Ricky Martin.
- Seriously? How many women carry so high the baby is in their neck?
- No more talking for the rest of the day. You are banned from speaking.
A blessing? A curse? Hardly either. They are an entity all of their own. They dictate what I will wear, and they compromise what I can eat. Moreover, they interfere with conversations and activities. The statement, “My eyes are up here…” Hardly applicable as they, when effectively encased, are very near my eyes.
It isn’t really your fault you can’t maintain eye contact and not breast contact; they are in the same line of vision. They are indeed distracting.
And they are noticed by those who attempt to be discrete and those with no filter. One time, our youngest son asked me if I loved him and I said, “Oh goodness yes! My heart is overflowing with love.” And he poked each one and said, “I can see how much huge love there is.” The worst ever? One of the sons, when he was about 5 said, “I just love those giant bumps under your shirt. I just want to squeeze them.” To which his father responded, “Things we think son, not things we say.”
Yes, these are the trials of the well-endowed. These are the sands that flow through my top heavy hourglass. Here I sit, blogging on the dressing room floor of Macy’s. White shirts on hangers, on the floor, on the bench. Some to keep, some to leave, some to consider altering. I have cried six times on this trip to the mall. I replace white shirts and Clorox bleach pens like others replace toilet paper on the roller.
And I am a good Christian gal. I love Jesus, HGTV, and apple pie. In the words of the well-endowed Jessica Rabbit: “I am not bad, I am just drawn this way.”
This is my life.
These are my cups… they indeed overflow.
May your floors be sticky and your cup size be a C. Love, Jami
(And you didn’t think you would get by without a scripture reference did you???)
Psalm 23:5 My cups overflows with your blessings…