So, Trisha admits she has gained a bit of holiday weight. I think it started at Halloween 1996, but I'm guessing. Either way, with every year of marriage, every year of aging, every single ungrateful-child-producing pregnancy, that finicky little number on the scale I like to affectionately refer to as "God's backlash" has continued it's illogical and unpredictable shimmy up and down through the numbers. I could more accurately predict a game of blackjack than what number is currently waiting for me upstairs on my scale.
One of the most personally deep losses I've experienced is what I consider my cleavage payout. I started out life as a stick figure lucky to be able to bypass the training bras and pretend bras that were less a declaration of boob size than battery size. I was proud of my 34B and felt anyone lucky enough to manhandle them should be, too. Imagine my surprise after pregnancies that my reward for shoving a square peg through a round hole (shapes may have been changed to protect the names of minors) was the subtle increase in my girls, AKA cleavage payout. Though I admit mine is not the most maternal of demeanors, I did at least develop quite the matronly bosom, and for that I was pleased. (I was also pleased about the 3 little babies I made from scratch, but really mostly the bigger boobs.)
Later on, I found that gaining weight can also do for breasteses what all those funny pills, creams, exercises, and really horrrifying vibrating vest things swear to do. As I found myself with even better boobs than I had imagined, I started thinking, "Huh. Boob life is good." My husband, already having hitched his horse to THIS particular mammary wagon long, long ago, was equally pleased.
So while I basked in the glory of my newfound 36's, imagine my surprise to discover that a little MORE weight isn't just providing a little extra padding....it's literally insulating me everywhere! I soon became painfully aware that there really WAS a reason why God hadn't given me the big guns on the first go 'round. They don't FIT. They require extra cushioning to support them above, next to, under, and basically all around. Yes, I wanted big boobs, but not big boob troubles.
Next came the inevitable struggle every woman has to do in her life, and it's in the top 3 horrors we speak of only amongst the sanctity of other women:
1. Shopping for a bathing suit.
2. Shopping for the "perfect" jeans.
3. Shopping for a bra that fits.
After several months and drawers now full of bras I'll never wear (too tight, too padded, too tightly padded), I'm starting to entertain the idea of a daily duct tape boob wrap, when suddenly a little angel tells me about the Genie Bra. I scoff at the thought. (I actually did scoff. You should try it. It's fun.) I've read those reviews and they S-U-C-K! But wait! my angel replies. They actually DO work and are super comfy. Try them!
(By the way, the angel is my mom. Though I do earn the occasional backlash weight gain, God otherwise isn't paying enough attention to me personally to provide a real bra angel, and suprisingly, not one of the Victoria's Secret models would return my calls.)
So I try them. And.....I DO like them. No underwire, no weird padding, no uncomfortable straps or clasps or bands. Just a tight tank top that holds them up and in. The only downside is they are butt ugly. But so are my girlies in the previously mentioned ill-fitting bras.
Invigorated with my fab fitting cleavage, I declare this is only temporary. I will work to lose weight and get back to my pretty, girly, lacy bras that are so much more fun to wash knowing I run the risk of driving my children effing mad should they ever see them.
Unfortunately, after just a few weeks of complete comfort, I realize I have fallen down the path as other, braver women before me; that tiny false step where you choose function over fashion, which can only lead to that big black hole where your sexuality goes to hide once you make that horrific switch......to grannie panties. While I still cling to my bikinis, I'm also aware that I don't WANT to give up the Genie Bra. Yes, it's ugly, and yes, there aren't any cool colors or patterns, and yes, when you roll it on (either over or from below, it's still bunched up and has to be rolled on like a pair of panty hose) you're reminded of all of the rolls of fat this sucker is rolling right over. The dilemma, in the end, is to what cost? Does the comfort take away from my goal to get back to better boobs? Am I willing to give up the pretty for the pretty sloppy? Will the boobs that were to be magnificent forever be lost under the disguise of Barbie's Bad Boob Bra?
I shall continue to try to figure out the cleavage conundrum.
Queen of my own Magic Kingdom, full of all the irreverent, obnoxious, and sometimes offensive sarcasm you know and love. I don't care what people think of me, but I do care if you like my blog. Read, forward, repeat.
