This particular post has been brewing for about a week now, and in the spirit of full disclosure, my dad, who happily doesn’t read this blog would be exceptionally annoyed if he saw the content. That being said, I’m going to continue with this work of literary greatness, and suffer the paternal consequences if he finds out. (Nanny and BT- HUSH).
Last week, I made the annual pilgrimage to purchase a strapless bra. Oh, how I hate to buy a strapless bra. When your chest area is over a 36 C, the strapless bra is absolutely the worlds biggest pain in the ass. They are, for the most part, ill fitting, uncomfortable, and insanely expensive. I hate, hate, hate buying them, but sadly, fashion dictates that i don’t have bra straps exposed. Correction, there seems to be a trend out there that allows women to show off bra straps (Carrie Bradshaw, I’m looking at you), but when your “Girls” are more than a handful, it just looks lazy and ill planned.
Back to my story. I hate strapless bras. Hate them with a red hot passion. In fact, I’ve written a similar diatribe HERE . My point is, strapless bras are uncomfortable but serve a purpose. I tried on about 14 different variations, argued with the sales girl about the size of my chest, and settled on the one that sucked the least. I was hot, crabby and not at all happy about the fact that I just spent $90 on something that I would be bitter to wear.
ANYWAYS… I started thinking about my chest. I was an “early bloomer” so they say. When most of my friends were able to wear cute bathing suits in 6th Grade, my life changed. I could no longer wear the simple unlined one piece. Things were happening, and by God, my parents were going to cover that stuff up. Gone were the days of wearing simple tanks and bathing suits, and welcome to the world of forced upon modesty. I had boobs before any other single female. I was not happy with this. They were annoying, in the way, and caused grief. When I headed into High School, my parents took to enforcing a dress code that could be similarly alligned with that of the Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints. Long baggy jumpers and turtle necks. All to hide the gifts that just kept on giving. I kid you not, I wore the baggiest clothes in the world, about 2 sizes too big just to avoid having anyone know that I had boobs. In retrospect, I didn’t really see what my mom was doing. I just went along with it. When I finally got to college, happily, I met a friend who looked at me, said “your clothes suck and you need a good bra.” We went to Victoria Secret and I bought a v-neck shirt. For the first time in my life, I actually revealed that I had a figure. People, I’m not kidding- I hid that stuff like Osama hid in a cave.
Genetics are a pain. All of the women on my moms side of the family are blessed with perfectly normal chest sizes. All of my maternal grandmothers sisters were 36 C. Yes, all 6 of them had perfect sized chests. On my dads side however, things changed. Oh man, were those women dealt a crappy hand in the card game of boobs. Short women, big ole chests. Pendulous if you will. There is not a flat chest among us. Button down shirts were purchased two sizes two big if you wanted to get them to close. V-Neck shirts were a no-no. Horribly ugly bras with 4 inch wide straps. It was a whole lotta cleavage.
Back to last week. I was exceptionally bitter and aggravated about the purchase of barely fitting strapless bra, and I called my mom to bitch. My dad answered the phone, and I said “Dad, I have a bone to pick with you.” Now, if you know my dad, he is as easy going as the day is long, and rarely reacts to anything that comes out of my mouth. He paused for a moment, and said “what did I do now?”
To which I responded “MY BIG BOOBS ARE YOUR FAULT.”
Through the phone I could hear him laugh and choke on his coffee.
He quietly asked “and how is this my fault?”
My response “your stupid genetics and your mom gave me big boobs.”
“You are right, life’s a bitch isn’t it?”
Oh the parental support I continue to receive after all of these years.
But really, when I finally suck it up and get my reduction, I should bill it back to Nedra, Norma and the gaggle of women that blessed me with these overflowing cups.
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