One of the reasons the subtitle to this blog involves "pursuit of the perfect bra" is due to my inability to find an ideal fit for my basooms. It's not rocket science, or is it? I don't think it's my fault that I am not able to find a brassier that fits comfortably and properly. Manufacturers are sadistic bastards. That's what!
What made me think of these revealing tales was a test that I took on Facebook. Yes, those are not only major time sucks but they are completely and utterly (udderly) inaccurate. I took a quiz to find out which body part I am first attracted to. Apparently I am a boob man/girl. Puh-leez! I have knockers that give the slang term real meaning. I ought to have them registered as deadly weapons. In fact, in winter I am certain I could slash a man's throat through a cable knit sweater. So, please allow me this indulgence and moment of sloth.
Two bumps. Fried eggs, sunny side up. Nothing truly notable. Tube tops flattened them. I was in sixth grade and it happened. I sprouted boobs. I wore an ill fitting bra purchased from K-Mart under my Holly Hobby button down shirt. There I was in all my string bean splendour; straight leg jeans leading down to big feet. My feet haven't really grown since sixth grade. Imagine Olive Oyle with a shag haircut and really dreadful glasses. That was me.
I was one of the first girls to grow boobs. It's not like I wished them upon myself. Genetics made it happen. My mother was busty. My sisters were always packin' a minimum of C-cups.
I was perusing some older photographs and was delighted to see that I did, indeed, have normal sized breasts at some point in my life. Well, normal for the women in my family, that is. Comfortable bras have always eluded me.
As I got older, gained weight, gave birth, breast fed .... my boobs have grown with me like the trees of the Amazon. Sadly, my breasts don't reach to the heavenly skies grasping at sunlight. You can probably guess that my boobalas choose to take the path of least resistance; the path of gravitational pull. Ladies, you know that infamous pencil test? You know the one that says you're breasts are still perky if you place a pencil under your breast and it falls. Well, I can put an entire pencil case under Thelma and Louise and it stays in place.
Let me track back for a second to explain Thelma and Louise. I was discussing how odd I found it that men name their penis. Whereas, women don't typically give their body parts names as if they are an entirely separate entity. The guy, with whom I was discussing this matter, inquired what name I would give my breasts. Without hesitation I blurted out Thelma and Louise. And so it goes....
At one point I had lost 30 lbs, but saw little shrinkage in the breasticular area. As the girls grew, the selection of bras decreased. I was regaled in viewing the delicate, lacy gems in Victoria's Secrets. I'd check the sizes available and walk away feeling like Henrietta Hippo. I hungered to wear pretty things even under the ugliest of holiday sweaters. The Internet had to have the answers I longed for.
The first website I found was http://www.figleaves.com/ . They are a pricey online store based out of Britain. The sizes were virtually unlimited. I was in shameless lacy heaven. One particular brassier caught my eye. It came in a variety of color combinations: Taupe on taupe (boring), purple on black, black on pink, green on black. Delicious! The description read that instead of underwires, this had a polymer support system. Polymer? Immediately my brain dashed to thoughts of NASA. If this thing could support the space shuttle, surely it could support my weighty issue. I first had to find the correct size. I furiously searched around for my tape measure. The instructions for proper measurement tells me I need to put on a bra that fits well. Now, if I had a bra that fit well, would I really need to measure? Me thinks not, but I digress. I follow the simple math instructions for determining the right cup size. It's also noted that bras vary in size depending on brand/manufacturer. UGH! First it was math problems. Now I have to read a chart system that could only be deciphered with the help of a protractor and/or MIT grad. Since I had neither, I took a shot in the dark.
I ordered two: 1 in the boring taupe and the other in black and purple. As a double treat I ordered the matching tummy support thongs. Don't ask me how on Earth a thong can possibly support ones tummy while the fanny pack is bajigglin' around out back. All I had to do was wait...and wait...and finally call the customer service line to find out where my pretty things were. The lovely British woman on the other end assured me they would arrive in no less than 3 days.
::insert Jeopardy theme song:::
My order finally arrived and I shredded the packaging. I whipped off my tshirt, tore off my old, elastic bare bra and held the highly anticipated polymer equipped over the shoulder bolder holder in my happy hands. I unclasped it, wrapped it around my waist, hooks to the front and hooked the 3 heavy duty hook & eyes. I turned it around and scooped my flesh into the supportive; yet gloriously feminine cups. It fit. But what in the world was IN the cups? I'm not talking about Thelma and/or Louise. There was what felt like a shoe horn. A polymer shoe horn was the primary support system of that model. My right hand reached up, under and *knock knock*. I wondered how this polymer armour could possibly be better than a thing wire under the breast material. Sure, the wires eventually work their way up and out at the most inopportune times ... typically rearing it's ugly head when you're talking to a male co-worker, but at least it doesn't knock three times.
I wore the bras because I had spent a small fortune on them. I have to say it created an interesting reaction while on a date and we were getting snuggly and he put his arm under mine to hug me. I demonstrated how I couldn't feel anything on the sides due to the spaceage polymer. Naturally, I had to show off the hollow resonance I could make with my knuckles. It momentarily killed the mood, but things got back on track.
As time went by, my girls got too big for even the figleaves.com beauties. I tried several other styles and sizes and always, ironically, fell flat on proper fit. The bigger I got, the uglier the bras were ... are. Long gone were the days of multiple color and lace selections. No longer could I choose a demi or decolletage revealing, front hook styles. I required the wide, double padded, reinforced, non-slip, non-stretch straps. Long gone were the 2 or 3 hook styles. I now had the grandma 5 hook deals. Sayonara to the smooth fitting, t-shirt butes. Hello multi-seamed nightmares.
Wearing a demi style bra makes it looks like two cats are rasslin' under a blanket when I walk. If the cup size isn't just right, the wires jut outward and it looks like I have an alien obtrusion. If the cup is too small and tight it creates a most delightful quadra-boob situation. Now, that's mighty flattering, isn't it? I know one day my breasticular units will be subject of a Glamour Don't. It's not my fault. It's difficult to be fitted for a bra when your only choices require a second mortgage and a miracle, and a little help from NASA.
Boobs, tatas, funbags ~ Thelma and Louise
Some things I know to be true. This is one of them: Women check out other women. In this photo, I believe Sophia Loren is checking out the bedangling breasticles of Jane Mansfield or some other heart break of a story platinum blonde from Hollywood gone by.
We can't help it. I have a heapin' helping of the mamms and I still look at the protuberances on other women. I don't envy their size. However, I might give a discreet eye roll to those I can detect are enhanced. Or, I might wearily wish my girls could remain 'way up firm and high.' Ten months of breast feeding Man-cub took a toll on Thelma and Louise.
Because I don't have glorious gams I tend to gaze upon women who do have legs worth celebrating. My legs are long. To quote Steve Urkel, "she has legs that go alllll the way to the floor." Seriously, I do have long legs. Sadly, genetics cursed me with hefty thighs, knobby, fat knees and calves that would better suit a ham hock. Shorts are demonic fashions. Thank the gods of mercantile for capris or I'd be at a loss. Sadly, this situation leaves me at a loss when it comes time for going for a dip. I can only hope that those accompanying me look worse than I do in swimwear (or drunk enough not to care). I'd sooner go for a skinny dip in the dark than wear a swimsuit in broad daylight. My buoys would deter anyone from looking at the atrocity that is my legs.
When summertime approaches I long for the days of old. Take the swimwear styles of vintage era and combine it with the high tech, super fabrics of today. I'd be a bathing beauty if that were the case. With my weight loss endeavor I am hoping I can find a bathing suit top that will give the boobalas ample coverage and support while I don the surf shorts I've seen hip girls wearing on the beach and at the water parks. I don't proclaim to be hip, but I do declare that I'm not a granny panty wearing old broad willing to sit in the shade.