By VIKKI CAMPBELL
Today I would like to talk about boobs.
Specifically, my boobs.
More specifically, how much my boobs shit me.
If you’ve ever seen my boobs (hi there ex boyfriends, my spray tan lady, my doctor, and that group of people I walked past at the beach that time my left boob had magically freed itself from my bikini) your reaction to this statement would be on par with your reaction to hearing Miranda Kerr complain she’s having a fat day: smiling fixedly while mentally cataloging available pillows nearby you can punch.
I am aware that my boobs are glorious. Completely natural, soft, bountiful bosoms that nestle in their DD/E cup home. However trying to find them a happy home is the bane of my existence. Bra shopping for me is faced with the same fear and grudging acceptance as answering the door on Halloween: it’s something that has to be done, however I feel strangely panicky giving lollies to costumed children. I despise it, I even break out in boob sweat just thinking about it… bra shopping that is, not feeding lollies to children.
A dreaded shopping trip is imminent considering I recently asked my husband to fix my bra strap with a safety pin and some strapping tape. He replied with, “I’m not bloody McGuiver. Go shopping.”
If you believed bra advertisements, one would think bra shopping simply involves trying on dainty little scraps of perfectly fitted colourful lace while posing all sultry-like in the mirror and thoughtfully twirling my highlighted hair.
It does not. It involves Valium.
I am insanely jealous of girls who can skip joyously la la la into Kmart and pick up a three pack of bras for $25. My bras cost $50 minimum. I must buy architecturally designed monstrosities with heavy duty scaffolding and a complex rigging system to hold up my humps. They’re not attractive. They also require an engineering degree to fasten.
Those cute/lacy/sexy bras you see on the rack (tee hee! … rack) are designed for As, Bs and Cs. The D and DD bras are simply not structured for the larger lumped lass. So they don’t hold them in, don’t hold them up, or my lovely lady lumps are mashed together at unseemly angles with more bulging flesh than an early episode of The Biggest Loser… not the episodes at the end of the season that I refuse to watch because the contestants are all thinner than me.
It’s not just bras. Bikinis? I need a size 16 to keep the ladies locked in, but this means the bottoms take a trip to Saggy McSagville. “Buy separates!” I hear you cry. Sure, I’ll just sell my first born child and my left kidney to finance said separates.
There is no sports bra in the world that can stop my jubblies jubbling while jogging. My brokeback mountains must be laced in a straightjacket before any kind of up/down motion occurs. I have to wear at least 2 bras. And a crop top. And a tight shirt. I’m even contemplating hiring someone to jog behind me and cup my cups up with their hands. (Perverts need not apply.)
What’s that you say, my perky little B cup sisters? “I try on dresses and they look horrid because I don’t fill out the top! Life is so gosh darn hard!” Pull up your big girl panties and buy a matching padded bra to pump up the jam. Me? I can’t magically flatten my breasticles. I have to go up to a larger size dress, which ends up fitting on the up top but with so much material everywhere else I could make a second dress for a child or a very small adult.
Speaking of padding, bra designers need to remove all padding from bras larger than a D. We do not need the extra oomph. We are fine as is, thanks. Padding makes my chest look (as my mum frankly terms it) ‘like the cows have come home.’ Thanks Mum. I love when you compare me to cattle.
This may sound like a massive whinge-fest. It is. But I feel better now.
Do you have problems bra shopping? Have you found the holy grail of bras? If so, share! I’m running out of safety pins and strapping tape.
Vikki is a Mamamia reader and the publication of this article ticks off an entry on her Baby Bucket List. You can find her on Twitter @MrsCambos. Please do, she needs more friends.
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