I’m really wishing I’d kept that “like living inside a bouncy castle” quote back now. The Sunday Roast I used it on wasn’t as appropriate as the following post…
Which might clue you in to the fact I am going to be talking about my breasts again. I’ve talked about them a time or two before, and no doubt before I am finished I will be talking about my breasts a time or two more.
Today is one such day. Well, we’ve had the serious, now it’s time for some fun!
It’s a matter of record, my ambivalent attitude towards my breasts. I’m still leaning more towards the “Yay! I have breasts!” than “Ugh, I have breasts 🙁 “, but they do bug me from time to time.
For example, I am not a woman designed to move at great speed. Even when wearing the most supportive sports bra you can get short of a corset I… there is only one word for it… bounce. And bouncing is painful. Most men don’t appreciate this fact, and nor do some women, but it is painful. I was trying to think of something to compare the sensation to and just couldn’t pervert my brain enough, which is a first for me.
Running for the bus when certain items of underwear are part of the wardrobe is not a good idea. In one particular pretty pink bra, running puts me in serious danger of falling out of said undergarment.
Why, therefore, do I always seem to be wearing that bra when I am late for the bus? Someone up there clearly has it in for me. The Boy Temp just couldn’t understand why I was so reluctant to run for the bus the other day. He wouldn’t leave it alone, so I told him quite plainly “because I would fall out of my bra. And it hurts”. *1*
So it pains me (in several ways) to have to face the fact that I am now a generous 36D. I’m not translating that for American sizing. You just have to understand it’s larger than average. The 36 part is fine – I’ve been a 36 for several years now. 36 is actually about the national norm. It’s the ‘D’ part that is starting to bug me. It’s a definite increase on what has gone before, and shows no sign of stopping. Hang the expense of being forced to buy a totally new set of lingerie in the next size up every six months, the sheer physics of the situation is start to get too me. Much bigger and I’m gonna be in serious risk of toppling over!
Think Barbie, but shorter, chunkier. And brunette.
And that’s a 36D in M&S. I went into La Senza the other day as they had a sale, and I wasn’t even fitting the ‘E’ cups. I refuse to accept I’m bigger than an ‘E’ cup. People are gonna start thinking they’re fake, and they’re not! *wail* I want to be able to wear halter neck tops and no bra! *double wail* Going dancing the other week? That was a trial I can tell you, because of course the bras that are most suitable for moshing aren’t the bras that look good with the skimpy clothes. It’s harder than it looks, getting ready for a night out. There’s more things to plan than you might think on cursory inspection. It’s like that scene in Bridget Jones – wear the big pants to hold the stomach in, or the sexy pants in case you get lucky? It’s guaranteed that no matter what decision you make, it will be the wrong one.
And don’t get me started on how most clothes just aren’t designed for people with breasts of any size, let alone what genetics have seen fit to bestow on me (I am very much my grandmother’s granddaughter in temperament and build. Especially build). I went shopping the other weekend and not a single top I tried on actually fitted.
Ah well, despite all that, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I certainly always get quick service at the bar 😀 (Though of course I also have to fight the whole “big breasted = easy” stereotype. It’s just so hard, being a woman *sigh* 😉 )
*1* Poor guy didn’t say a word for the rest of the journey. Not sure if my mother did the right thing, bring me up to be so plainspoken, but it sure makes for some fun facial expressions 😀 Back