…My bust, that is. And (I mean this in the nicest way possible) if you can’t handle that first sentence, you may want to stop now. I imagine it’s only going to get worse from here.
The problem: I cannot fit the top half of my body into a normal blouse. Not unless I want to risk an eyeball when one of my button pops over my buxom bosom. My bust currently demands a size 14, but my waist says it only needs a 6 or so. What’s that you say? Why am I whining? Because nothing fits. Not a blasted thing. Even the most innocuous t-shirt buying foray turns into a battle between the forces of fit and style. Does it fit my bust without looking like a pin-up poster? Sure. Do I have a waist? No; apparently it’s taken a vacation, perhaps to see the circus residing in the lower half of the t-shirt.
Sometimes I find myself wondering how this came to be. My body has always been rather unassuming. Nicely shaped, well-behaved; generally I dressed it and forgot about it. Ah, the teenage years.
Then I remember what happened. I went and had a baby. Multiply that by nursing for ten-plus months and you have a really good reason for my body to revolt. I just didn’t expect it to take the form of a ballooning bosom.
Ah, and I can hear half of you yelling it now, “Hello, you’re still nursing! Of course you’re still huge!” I appreciate that thought, really I do, but I think I’ve just given up on it. It’s been my mantra since I first measured in a size G bra (yes, as in DDDD). Yet I have gone from nursing my baby around seven ounces every four hours to nursing her not even enough to slake her thirst twice, maybe three times a day and I’ve only dropped one cup size. My band size has changed from 38 to 32, but those darn cups just won’t shrink.
What’s more, there’s apparently some great fashion faction that has decided that slimmer girls simply do not have ample bosoms. I went through my bras the other day; I have outgrown over a half dozen of them in the last 18 months; most of them were special order because no one carries my size. Granted, of course, there may just not be enough girls who wear my size to make it worth carrying. My theory is that not enough girls know what size they should really be wearing, or think they shouldn’t be bigger than a B or C, since apparently it’s fashionable to have a small bust (see above comments about trying to find clothes that fit).
My theory about the Fashion Faction is that it’s made entirely of women. I know that many complain that men must have come up with all uncomfortable/inconvenient fashions ever designed. However, after several discussion with my husband (who is a man, in case you missed that), I realized that if your run-of-the-mill man had anything to do with it, most fashions would feature curves, curves, and more curves. So I’ve decided that some group of women who want men to get as little gawking-pleasure as possible has taken it upon themselves to convince the women of the world that toothpick is the best way to look.
Not that I’m saying my figure is the dream figure by any stretch of the imagination. I freely admit that I’m still a few pounds overweight and should be clocking in extra hours at the gym. (Nor am I saying, by the way, that skinny is necessarily bad.) I do think, however, that there are more women out there than will admit it that can’t fit their waist and their bust correctly at the same time. A button strains across the top, and the first thought is “Oh heavens, I’m fat!” Never mind the extra inches hanging off the waist.
But I digress. The point is that my bust is out of control, and I think that I must soon give up hope of its ever being under control again.
And yes, I already know that there are plenty of women out there who would love to have this problem… er, bust. Plenty of women, in fact, who would pay to have this bust even. I have but one thing to say to them: What on earth is wrong with you? First off, there’s a good chance you really don’t want it. You may think you do, but likely you want that perfect C cup that fills blouses just enough to look buxom. Second, my guess is that if there’s money spent for implants, there’s likely money for tailoring (and let’s be honest, if I had money for tailored blouses and custom bras, I wouldn’t be writing this). Thirdly, let me just put out there that implants are dangerous – maybe not health wise, but self-image wise. But that’s probably a land mine best left for its own post. Conclusion: No one really wants a back-injury inducing, absolutely no-clothes-fitting, busting-out-of-or-drowning-in-everything-I-own rack, and that includes me.
What I am grateful for is that I’m finally comfortable enough with my own body to bash it with a sense of humor. We’ve been through a lot together, my bust and I particularly, as we’ve taken care of and nurtured a daughter who now spends half her time running away from us. The difficulties with my bust, and with every part of my body, have brought me to an unapologetic conclusion: my body is what it is. If the world doesn’t make clothes to fit it, that’s their problem. Only my husband will know how nicely my hips flare from my waist, and I’ll keep the circus in the lower half of my shirt until I can find a tailor who takes charity cases. Ladybug digs the clowns anyway.