Wow, blog’s not even a week old and already I’m talking about boobs. How much you wanna bet I’ll be talking about sex before the month is out?
During the holidays one of my favorite DJs got a boobjob done. And I can understand her reasons behind doing it (not that a grown woman has to justify what she wants to do with her body to anyone, but she’s a public figure [no pun intended] and knew there’d be endless questions, so she explained her reasons on her blog), however, as a card-carrying member of the Association for Large Busted Ladies, I have to say big boobs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
(Don’t mind that slamming sound. That was just my two straight male readers walking out on me because I blasphemed teh bewbage. They’ll come back when I start talking about head or something.)
I sympathise with Holly. I really truly do. I wasn’t always cursed to carry two three pound sandbags on my chest. In seventh grade, the nickname this kid Omari had chosen for me was “two backs”. And I couldn’t argue with it. I was pretty flat chested. By 8th grade I had enough to say I had something up there. Just not a lot. (Omari had graduated by then so it didn’t really matter anymore)
9th grade blessed me with artists like Aaliyah, Boss, Lady of Rage, and Bahamadia who made it ok for girls to wear baggy clothes. Plus West Coast rap had pretty much taken over and the cholo look was ok here in the MidWest. All this was to my benefit because my training bra sized A-cups had popped into full blown B’s and were edging toward C (take note: I was about 5’2″ and 110lbs soaking wet holding bricks).
I kept my figure pretty well hidden for most of freshman and sophomore year (there are actually multiple reasons behind this, but I won’t get into them here). So much so that during a school play my drama class put on two of my closest male friends (Rob and Booker) damn near fell out their chairs when I walked on stage in a figure hugging white wool/angora dress (I was playing a woman with a crisis of faith who hadn’t been to church in a while, so I had to find something that spoke to that image…that dress seemed to work just fine). They turned to my best friend Toya and said “That’s Tori?” “That’s not Tori. Is it?” “Tori has a figure?” “When did she get a figure?” “When did she get those?” “Did you know she had those?” Toya, who had basically adopted me that previous summer because she lived a few blocks over and her family was much more sane than mine, just laughed. For months afterwards I had to deal with them (mostly Booker) going “You have boobs. When did you get boobs? Did you know you have boobs?” As though I could possibly miss them in my bathroom’s full length mirror.
Through high school I easily went from a B, to a C, to a D. By time prom rolled around I was just a few centimetres shy of DD. By January of my freshman year of college, I could no longer zip my prom dress all the way up. Where my boobs started, my zipper stopped. And all the creative inhaling and exhaling and contorting of my chest, spine, shoulders, and whatever other part of my upper body I could think of, couldn’t get it to budge. There went my gorgeous dress. Le sigh.
When I got pregnant, teh bewbs grew again. But this was normal, I was told. You’ll go back to your natural size in no time, I was told. Once you’ve stopped breastfeeding they’ll go down, I was told. Well, let me tell you, I was told a load of bullshit. They did not go back to my natural (now former) size. They did not shrink as promised. No. They stayed. Stubbornly at that. Even when I lost weight, they were still there. I was officially a DDD (yes, that’s 3 D’s), which is the equivalent to having having two boston terriers attached to your chest. (So what I’m exaggerating, it’s my damn blog)
Seemingly over night my underwear budget doubled. Where once I could get three really cute bras for $40 (five if I caught a sale at Target), I was now paying that much for one. And let me tell you, they aren’t always cute. There are a limited number of places that even sell bras in my size. I have to go to Lane Bryant if I don’t want to go broke. Being a size 10, that means I’m the skinniest heffa in there shopping for myself. Yeah, I get nasty looks. Lane Bryant doesn’t seem to like the idea of setting their bra rack up according to size. Just style. You’re on your own after that. They also don’t have the little tags on the tops of the hangers to let you know what size the bra is. So you have to go wading through rack after rack of bras to hopefully find one that fits. I have given up on doing this in-store. I just shop online. And while that solves one problem, I’m left with another one (in the bra department). Sports bras. My last one was a D, it ran me nearly $45. I can still wear it, but it doesn’t provide the necessary support I need to keep me, or anyone around me, from getting a black eye when they bounce around. Lane Bryant doesn’t sell sports bras in my size. Neither does Bravissimo (a UK based store that caters to large busted women…so I’d be paying in pounds, and insane shipping costs…yeah, that’s fun).
Beyond just the fashion aspect of this, these things are heavy. During my last yearly humiliation, I tried to subliminally tell my doctor that I wanted to her suggest a reduction for me. And I know she got the message, but she’s a member of the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Committee), and IBTC members generally have little sympathy for those of us in ALBL. Not that she’s not an awesome doctor. She’s great. I love her to bits. Only doc to ever get me to laugh during my yearly humiliation (she was telling me about how she wanted to tell one of her older male patients to quit whining about having to get a prostate check, and that if we can get a check every year from the time we’re 18, he can suck it up and get a check every year after he turns 50), but she wasn’t hearing me on the reduction. And if she doesn’t ok it, neither does insurance. And I know they won’t ok getting a lift (which I’d gladly take in lieu of a reduction). So teh bewbs and I are stuck together (literally), until I can prove to my doc that I need a reduction for health reasons, not just because I’m a little fed up with not being able to just look down and see my feet.