Right off the bat, in case the title didn’t give it away, I need to warn all of you that this is going to be one of those posts. An honest and frank, Bridget Jones esque ranting about all things girlie. So stay and read or feel free to leave because shit is getting real.
From the time I was in 8th grade until about 8 or 9 years ago I weighed 110 pounds. Don’t hate, that’s just who I was, and because I had a raging metabolism I could eat whatever I wanted without much consequence. Look, like I said, don’t hate.
Despite my (total lack of) effort to think myself into that body type and shape forever, close to a decade ago I started developing weight in the wrong places. I know, shocker right?
Thing is, I was never really a fan of sweets (even as a kid) so candy, cakes, soda? I’d go for it sometimes but generally it didn’t hold much appeal. Also, I’m a grazer by nature meaning I eat small bits of stuff throughout the day, not three huge meals. And since I don’t go for sweets I almost always skip dessert.
What I do like is French fries, chips, salty stuff. And exercising is so boring to me. Plus I work on average 10 hour days every day so I decided it would be easier to be lazy than to try to find time for working out.
When I say weight in the wrong places, I’m talking about all the places many women pad to make them look more full. I can’t do that, it just never felt comfortable. Anything push-up is always uncomfortable to me.
I used to wear a 34B bra size. Predictable. Easy. Right off the shelf. I loved my tiny chest. Nothing to sag, bounce, hurt my back. Men didn’t generally fall all over themselves gawking at the nothing that was there and that was fine with me. Plus, I could go without a bra and not end up on the worst dressed list.
I also used to be a size 4. Oh the good old days.
As a human I get the fact that certain parts will change as years go on. Spread, shift, etc. Even a small chest will start to sag eventually because, hello, gravity works on bricks and feathers in the exact same way.
But now I want to smack myself for letting it all grow before it started to sag.
The day I knew things changed was the day I went into my old place of employment to grab a new bra. When they measured me I discovered perhaps the most disturbing fact of all.
Not only had my boobs apparently decided to finally come in at about age 35, but their rate of growth was, um, off. My chesticals were two different sizes.
It isn’t a huge difference but that difference makes it impossible to wear an off-the-rack bra. Well, at least the styles I was comfortable wearing. And forget about anything with a wire or other form of support. Even from a specialty store like my old workplace.
Fabric is fabric and to fit the larger side means things are too loose on the smaller side. Or vice versa of course. Which meant I was going to have to make a choice:
Get off the sofa and try to move my body so the collected fat melts off and I can fit in something more standard, or, accept the fact that I’d be sporting the one long boob look in a wireless shelf bra for the rest of my life.
A friend of mine calls this effect boob log. She’s so right.
A shelf bra will keep them upwards (to a point) but there’s no separation. Just one continuous boob. Nope, that won’t look at all like I’ve given up. Sooo sexy I think they should sell a stick along with the bra so I can beat back all the dudes trying to get up in there. Please guys, I’m a married woman.
Yeah, that will happen.
For a long time, boob log was the lot I allowed myself in life. Always knowing I had two bumps under there but looking at a horizontal tree trunk every time I looked in the mirror. I had to adjust the kind, cut and style of clothing I wore to accommodate the shoulder strap width, too. A thickness akin to a bungee cord, and with just as much elastic.
The problem with that, and honestly the main reason I won’t go bungee jumping, is that elastic wears out eventually. Especially here in the dry desert. Not to mention the water here is so hard it may not actually be water but a liquefied calcium, magnesium, chlorine blend.
So, after washing for just a couple years now, my admission-of-middle-age bra is starting to act elderly.
Sagging has started. The fabric is stretched out and causing folds so large that even Botox couldn’t lift that shit.
The time has come to replace the one bra in my drawer that I’ve sunk to owning. But, as you can probably surmise from all that flabby, saggy, lopsided talk up there, that task is the very last thing I want to do. Ever.
The last time I tried to buy one all that happened was me trying on 10 different types of bras in an array of size choices and going home with nothing more than frustration.
I made the fatal mistake of trying on something other than the boob log bra. Shame on me for wanting to feel like a girl again. For wanting to wear a tank top that doesn’t show my six-foot-wide bra strap at the shoulder. For wanting to have something on my oddly assembled body be a standard size. Like the good old days.
But, as they say, the good old days are gone. Which means the power is in my hands to turn this thing around.
I have actually started working out, walking every day. Why? Simply because I hate shopping. I never realized when I had the off-the-rack boobs not to take that fact for granted. That someday shopping to protect those blobs was going to be the most annoying, time consuming, mentally evil activity I’d take part in.
So my goal is to remove the negativity from my life.
Working out doesn’t change the fact that I still need to go and buy a new bra right now, of course. But maybe, if I’m really lucky (and super dedicated), this will be my last log.
The day I fit back into a bra I actually like I’m using said log to start my fire pit. In my less political,1960’s bra-burning throwback, I’m inviting all the ladies who have gone through bra fit issues in their lives to join me.
In other words, every lady I know.
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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.