My Breasts Runneth Over

Why do bra designers hate me?

As those of you who know me well may surmise, yes, I went shopping this evening. I didn’t have to sail tonight but didn’t get that confirmed until too late to do anything worthwhile, so I found myself with some free time on my hands. What do I do with it?

Do I:
A) Catch up or *gasps* get ahead on any number of freelance projects that urgently need my attention?
No, I do not.

B) Go for a bike ride along the beach or a stroll in the sand?
No, I do not.

C) Head to the library and attempt to do some research for any one of a number of projects that call out to me with the increasing demands of a spurned yet psychotic lover?
No, I do not.

No, I, dear friends, chose Secret Option D, Torture and Feeling Bad About My Body.

Now, let me say that, by and large, I like my body, so much so that I posed naked for a calendar a few years back. I have no desire to look like… well, a more pop-culturally aware person could give you the name of a supermodel here, but not I. You know what I mean; I don’t want to be a twig. I have a good body; it does what I want (and, on occasion, what others want, but that’s another entry for a blog that my mom DOESN’T read. Hi, Mom!) I quit smoking (several times, but one finally took quite a bit back), don’t drink to excess, shovel leafy green things down my throat on occasion, and, most importantly to my particularly family history, watch my sugar. I ride my bike many miles a week, crew on a sailboat, and generally move around. I weigh just over 140 pounds and, while I’d like a flatter stomach and a rounder ass (if I didn’t have the Salustri hips my jeans would just slide right to my ankles, a carpenter could use my butt as a level), meh. What can I do? Starve myself? I like food way, way, WAY too much for that nonsense. Plus I have the willpower of a dog on a meat wagon.

Anyway, my point is this: I’m OK with how I look. If I could change one tiny thing, it’d be my breasts. OK, that’s not tiny, but you know what I mean. I went from a carpenter’s dream (flat as a board) to my current size in about a month or so in 6th grade. My current size is actually “38 Hindenburg” which, if you walk into any Victoria’s Secret, is incredibly difficult to fit.

It was my mistake to try to do just that this evening. Hey, here’s a handy little tip for all you salesgirls working at any shop that sells bras: if you can go braless without endangering those around you when you break into a brisk jog, please do not try to help me buy a bra. Find the hefty matron in the back (you know who I mean, the manager who transferred from Lane Bryant) to assist me. I have a lot of rage and, as I may have mentioned, I don’t like bra shopping. You, blondie with the 24-year-old A cups, are merely a target. Serial. I see you and I see the little red concentric circles over your head. Back away from the DD-cup, please.

Honestly, it’s not their fault. Really. Bra designers apparently never reached puberty and want to punish those of us capable of fully developing. I mean, come on, why spend all your time designing bras for those women who don’t actually need them? Why not, instead, channel your energies into creating bras for those of us who want -nay, need our breasts held up above our navels?

Serial. I was looking at bras that cost $56 this evening. Do you have any IDEA how many idiot tourists I need to pander to on these sailboats or how many stories about city council I need to write to earn that money? Here’s the kicker: I would GLADLY have parted with it had ANY of these bras that cost as much as a monthly water bill come CLOSE to containing my breasts in a fashion that didn’t make me look like Maxine from the Hallmark line of greeting cards.

I mean, come on, here, people. My breasts are big (I think by now we’ve established that I’m not bragging), and I’m OK with that (they’ve served me well), but what’s the big deal (no pun intended) in SOMEONE designing a few bras that actually fit me? Why must every shopping foray end in tears? Is this some sort of punishment for something I did in a past life? Is THIS what they mean by karma?

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I write. I take pictures. I love my dog. I love Florida. My 2016 book, 'Backroads of Paradise' did really well for the publisher and now I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure to finish the second book.