I’m so top heavy I can’t lay on my back without suffocating or creating armrests in my armpits.
My cleavage seems to start at my chin. (This is my super flattering selfie to illustrate.)
Running feels like parts of my body are being ripped off by unseen forces. When I have to chase after my kids I’m instantly furious with pain and wishing I had two close friends the height of my boobs with good upper body strength to run ahead of me.
During the summer, I have been known to wear swimsuit tops to avoid the discomfort of regular bras and, NO, going braless is not an option. Nor are sports bras, they don’t make them for me.
I end up knocking things over with my knockers. The worst was a display of cantaloupes. Yes, I see the irony and, no, I didn’t find the irony amusing at the time. I did with the bra display though.
A friend told me once that she was jealous of my boobs. I explained at length why she was insane. The outlandish amount my bras cost, I can’t lay on my back or sleep comfortably, most exercise is painful and nothing fits me properly. I either look pregnant, soliciting, or like a plastic-surgery-gone-wrong story. She didn’t believe me. I told her to walk around with thawed turkey carcasses on the front of her and she would change her mind. Her eyebrows met her hairline as she laughed at me.
I’ve also been told I talk about my boobs a lot. My response is that they speak for themselves but it’s very muffled and whiny.
In truth, they were one of the features about me that I thought were attractive until I had kids. Then they became “home base” for the kids, the magic that fed them, the orbs they clung to as I put them to sleep, the sweet bliss and madness of cosleeping, and the comfort that heals them even now when they lean against my “squish”.
For all the discomfort and hatred I’ve had for them, all the insecurity they inspired in me and my baggy wardrobe throughout my adolescence, all the times I wished they were smaller; I’m grateful to my breasts.
They provided me with an ample source of comedy, character building, and the gift of nursing my children. Not all women can do so successfully and for that I’m eternally grateful.
Even if I decide to go ahead with a reduction some day it doesn’t mean I hate my body. It means I’m crying “surrender” to gravity and helping the girls move up in the world.