Dear boobs (or Pinky and Perky, as my boyfriend once nicknamed you),
Thank you for always being there for me. Oh, wait a minute. You weren’t always there, were you? You have to admit, you were a bit late to the party. I wasn’t what you’d call an early developer.
Remember that day in Year Nine when my mum took me bra shopping? It was a mortifying experience, having a strange woman measuring you, but I proudly turned up to school the next day with my bra on underneath my uniform. My friends noticed immediately.
“You’re wearing a bra! But you don’t need one. What size is it?”
“8AAA,” I muttered.
They shrieked with laughter. Thanks for nothing, boobs.
Just as an FYI, this post is sponsored by Berlei. But all opinions expressed by the author are 100 per cent authentic and written in their own words.
But you weren’t finished, were you? No. Although I resigned myself to a flat-chested life, you went through a growth spurt when I was in my late teens. Then I went on the Pill, and I ended up wearing a C cup.
I had a lot of fun, thanks to you, Pinky and Perky. I’ll never forget the time my boyfriend took me to a pole-dancing club and, after a drink or two, I thought it would be a good idea to get up and dance around the pole myself. A few people laid eyes on you that night, didn’t they?
Then I hit 30 and decided to start eating healthily and going to the gym. After feeling you jiggling around alarmingly the first time I went on the treadmill, I realised that I needed to do something for you. I bought myself a proper sports bra and running became a lot more comfortable. We covered a lot of kilometres while watching Oprah and Dr Phil.
Next challenge for us: pregnancy. You were always pretty good when I was having my period, and didn’t feel tender. Pregnancy was the same. You just got a bit bigger, and I loved feeling like an earth goddess. Thanks.