Posts Tagged ‘bewbs’

There is no such thing as a fun day of shopping when you’ve got big bewbs

So today H sent me out into the world with his debit card (WOO HOO TAX RETURN!) and told me to pick up a few shirts that are weather appropriate. So I merrily skipped along to Old Navy (trying to get more bang for my buck and not look like I just waltz out of the thrift store…though I do enjoy second hand shops). And that’s when the merriness stopped. Like a screeching halt just in time to prevent a collision with a mac truck stop. Shirts, by and large, are not made for women who have big busts and smaller waists. As discussed before (f.ck you, find the post called BEWBS! yer damn self), I’m a 36DDD. This means the top of my tops has to be a large (or extra large depending on the cut) while everything below the boob-area can be a medium to large (again, depending on the cut). However, shirts are not made like that, unless you’re ordering from Bravissimo, and I just don’t have the sort of money that let’s me pay for something in ┬ús (the British pound is worth about $2…so just double the price of everything and there you have it) and have it shipped from the UK to here.

This means a lot of rack diving and store hopping to find the right shirt that doesn’t strain at the bust or look like you bought it in the maternity section.

Old Navy was a bust (no pun intended). Everything was cut low, haltered and made for skinny bitches who don’t have 36DDD puppies to keep in line and thus can go bra-less (*deep breath* I don’t hate skinny girls…I don’t hate skinny girls…I don’t hate skinny girls).

So I hit Dress Barn…where the sizes aren’t quite what they say they are. I found a few shirts on sale (YAY SALE!). One was a 3/4 length shirt with a cute print on the front and back in French about bicycles. The only size they had was a medium and I’m hoping that it stretches a bit in the wash or else The Girls may make an unexpected appearance one of these days. The other was a great button down with an attached belt. It took three tries to find a shirt that fit properly. The medium gave the clear threat that if I so much as yawned the tiny little plastic button that just barely held my shirt together at the bust was going to go flying and put someone’s eye out. Large was more subtle; it gave the message that even though it fit right everywhere else, the strain on the button at my bust threw up a big red sign that read “I really wanted this shirt and am willing to ignore the fact that it doesn’t fit right across the boobs just so I can have it.” Not good. So I had to go to extra large. If it weren’t for the attached belt, the damn thing would still be on the rack. Sure it fit perfectly across the bust, but without the belt it’d look like I had grabbed it from the maternity section.

Sigh

Next stop was Marshall’s. Yeah that was a joke. Off to Plato’s closet. Ok, before you go on about how I’m wrong for being just this side of thirty and shopping in a second hand store that specialises in juniors clothes just one thing: kiss my ass. I get my clothes cheap and if I have to go digging through racks of clothes that make me want to weep because an extra large is barely big enough for me to breathe in…I will.

I grabbed a few shirts there, tried them on, and put them back. On my way out the store a long white Indian style tunic with silver embroidery caught my eye. Extra large and $14 (it was J Crew so it probably cost the original owner over $30). I said screw trying it on, snatched it off the rack and slapped down the cash (well, debit card) for it.

I also dropped by WalMart (which I usually avoid because…well because it’s WalMart and WalMart is the devil), and for some reason their plus sized women’s section is three times the size of their regular section so I moseyed over to the mens section and found an awesome Lynard Skynard thermal for $5. SCORE!

I skipped home merrily, trying to ignore the injustice that there are a ton of cute shirts out there that don’t fit because I have big boobs.

I do the same thing when I return home from jeans shopping. The day I buy a pair of jeans without the booty gap will be the happiest day of my life.

BEWBS!

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.