August 26, 2008

bosom buddies

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , at 9:30 pm by marinagrey

“Beige and giant, like you could parachute out of a plane with [it]”

“Its attempts at coy femininity — an off-pink shade, a wee bow — are utterly unconvincing. I’ve seen less fabric in a sweater.”

“a flesh-colored medieval torture device”

Are you wondering, yet, what on earth I’m talking about? I’m quoting three wonderful women who wrote very personal, touching, frank and completely hilarious articles about shopping for large, large bras and the realities of having huge hooters.  They wrote, essentially, of every joy, sorrow, embarassment, and shame women of my..um…stature have experienced. All links to these great articles are found in this post.

At 5 foot 3, I wear medium-sized clothes and have a size 7 foot– normal. 

Petite, even.

But the boobs? I’ll quote from writer Sarah Hepola: “Well, I could hazard a guess. I was something bigger than double D. I was a 34 ridiculous. A 34 pain in the ass.” 

While my bra size has shrunk to a more manageable size due to daily 3-mile runs (and fantastic, amazing, wonderful sports bras from Title Nine), there have been times in my life–times I’m not proud of– where I quite honestly haven’t had the guts to know my true bra size.

So where did the knockers come from?  I’m blaming my Italian paternal grandmother, and weight gained (and, mostly, lost) in college. But really, there’s no way of knowing. There’s just the everyday existence of being known as Tits McGee and Chesty McChesterson, of guys being either turned on or put off by them, of eternal back (and shoulder, and knee, and ankle) pain and the embarassment of having to change in front of anyone.  There are the charges, not from men alone but a fair number of my fellow women, that occur anytime I’m wearing something more fitting than a muumuu: slut, skank, attention-whore.  There are stares while walking down the street, and angry looks from girlfriends if I so much as talk to their boyfriends. 

The attention, to me, is not positive.  It is not thrilling, nor is it desired or sought out.  But I haven’t lost much sleep over it, either.  Honestly, I have better things to worry about.

Like how to find a bra created for women who <gasp!> actually have breasts.  Or a dress that doesn’t make me look like I work on a street corner, nor in a convent. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I realize that the pain and stigma goes both ways.  One of my very best friends, with whom I grew up, is pretty much entirely flat-chested.  She dreads having to buy “almost-A” cups at 23 years old. And with the huge numbers of women paying lots of money for bigger breasts, it is evident that society has little place for “mosquito bites”.  However, I must remind Flat Frida and her friends that in 20 years, when we Mammoth Marinas are hoisting our chests into said “torture devices”, they will be picking out cutsie, feather-light training bras with their granddaughters.

 There are probably very few women out there who feel entirely at peace with their bra size, and that is a very sad thing.

We can point fingers, lecture, and hypothesize all day long about what America’s mania over mammaries stems from, and I encourage your comments along those lines! But starting today, I’m proclaiming myself a Bosom Buddy.  I will not make disparaging remarks about breasts- neither mine nor anyone else’s.  I will buy top quality bras, regardless of how much they set me back, because I deserve cuteness and bows and SUPPORT alongside my smaller-chested sisters. I will be sure to keep fit and eat well, because in truth, they only start to become unmanageable when I’m over my healthy weight. 

And maybe one day, I will decide to have a reduction.  And a lift.  But for now, I’m happy just the way I am:

Boobalicious. Boobtastic. Boobarific.

me :)