Getting to the point that you are ok with your boobs lustrously presenting themselves just a few inches above your belly button, and not caring, is a skill not easily acquired. It takes practice, and years of impatience and uncomfortableness, to allow yourself such a pleasure. It also takes years of learning how not to give a shit and rocking the body that you were gloriously given.
So, if you are reading this, you might be thinking , “ who in their right mind would ever want to condone, let alone accept that their boobs now stare out at other people’s mid-section”. And, who in the world wouldn’t want big perky ones, that look like they have their own drill sergeant, telling them to stand at attention? Am I right? Well to understand this, we have to take it back to the beginning. I am sure that my truth is probably the same as most of all the other women truths out there, when it come to the battle of the boobs.
There came a day when every girl looked down their shirt, and either gasped in horror, or squealed in delight at the little increase that came out of no-where. I was one of the ones that gasped in horror. Mainly, because my brothers had taken to a fun little game where they would snap the back of my bra. Or even worse, the fact that my training bra became a hot topic of conversation, over my captain crunch cereal in the morning. It got so bad, I stopped wearing a bra. Instead I just shoved it into my backpack or jacket pocket, and changed into it when I got to school; just to do the same before I got home from school. It was easier.
Boobs were embarrassing. To make it even better, our school had white gym shirts, so it’s not like you could get away without wearing a bra when you were in gym class.
Now, I’ll just skip over the whole teenage portion of boobs, because, well, you either had big ones and spent all your time wishing they were small, or you had small ones and wished they were big. You were either mortified to go bra shopping with your parents, or you collected ‘Victoria Secret’s’ latest and greatest push-up bra, to push up the already perfect boobs that were in play.
Your glorious 20’s
The reality is, it is somewhere in your twenties when you realize that all bras suck. This is after spending hundreds of dollars on the bras that promise the biggest rewards, and after you had built up your bra portfolio to cover ever angle possible. Pushed up to your chin, check, cleavage as deep as it gets, check, no spillage, check, bra that does up forty different ways that you’ll never put on again after you get it home from the store, check, underwire, check, no underwire, check, does up at the front, check, does up at the back with 50 clasp, check, doesn’t do up at all but you have to squeeze your head an arms through impossibly small holes, check and check, super sexy, check, bras for the gym that no boy should ever see, check, bra that protects you from bear attacks, check, bra that acts as a life preserver, check, bra that feeds you candy, check. Ok, so maybe not the candy part, but I would have owned 10 of those for sure! I am pretty sure on top of the wide range of bras, you ended up buying them in every color of the rainbow too. You know, just in case you happened to wear that one dress, that you haven’t fit into since the beginning of time, that you may need that one perfect bra for, in case they suddenly discontinued Doritos for all time, and you can finally shed those pounds.
You know, so now you are in your late twenties, or early thirties. You own a closet that you had to hire a professional closet designer to come in and personally build you a brassiere compartment with rotating mannequins to display all the hyper functions they all have, so that you can remember what the hell you bought that brown bra with 50 clasps at the back for.
Then you find out your pregnant. All is wonderful, until your boobs big or small, start to swell up to the size of that watermelon that girl named baby carried in Dirty Dancing. You know the famous line, “ I carried a watermelon” . Yeah, well now you are carrying two of those damn things ‘baby’. So, you trek your ass to the maternity store and take a look at what you are about to replace your rotating mannequins with. Pregnancy bras.
All your hard-earned work and money, and you are about to realize that pregnancy bras are perhaps the ugliest, yet most comfortable things you have ever experienced in your life. Seriously teens, go get yourself some maternity bras now. Heaven sent. Super ugly though. You mannequins will also breathe a sigh of relief, trust me.
The reality is, you buy nice bras so that your ‘partner’ can enjoy them. You never really enjoy them do you? Can you honestly say that underwire is fun? Or that when the underwire pokes its stupid head out of a hole in your bra and jabs you in the ribs over and over all day that it’s enjoyable? Oh, and how about when your washing machine loses one of the nipple inserts that you have in your bra, and you take your bra out and you have to decide if you can get away with wearing one side insert in, and one side insert out? Oh, and if you do happen to find the insert, taking 5 days to try and insert that thing back into that microscopic slit they leave for you? And if you are lucky enough to get it in after 5 days, it ends up folded over. Have fun wearing that over your nipple. I still do not understand the bra doing up in the back either, and having to learn to be a damn magician to put it on without looking at the clasp. You may say, well you could put it on in the front and rotate it around, but all that does is invite chafing, I’ll pass.
Post Birth Bliss
After you make it through the breastfeeding ( I will honor the tradition of hiding the small horrors of it from the unsuspecting mothers, in the name of knowing it provided my children with life and nutrients and I would do it again, I think), your boobs will never be the same. You will now spend the next 5-10 years, yes I said it, wearing your maternity bras and dreading the return to the millions of dollars in bras you have stashed away in a box now in the basement of your home. Your partner will beg you to get rid of the tattered, one clasp bras that you cling too. White, no longer white, but a dull grey color. Some, with no discernable color, except for the stains of life on them. You honestly are even grossed out by how gross these things are, but damn it, they are comfy.
When you finally decide to throw them out, you will discover that the ones you saved for after the baby no longer fit. That’s right. 1 million dollars in bras, gone. Forever. You will also discover that your boobs don’t even fit the sizes they sell anymore. Seriously. 38 D Nope Too small. 40 D Nope too big. DD? DDD? C? B? Does it matter? All I know, Is that I put a new bra on, and in one size I feel like my brain is going to pop out of my head from how tight the bra is, and the next one, I look like the flying nun with the hat with the big flaps on the side, except her hat looks like it is on my boobs. Attractive. Underwire, I don’t even know why they sell those for women who are 40 years and up. They are not comfortable. Like not even remotely. My boobs suffocate in them. I end up with indents in my skin that become a permanent wrinkle as a result of how deep these things cut. Sports bras don’t support anything. I know, I have done the bounce test in a million of these things. I may as well wear cellophane. So, what’s your option? That’s right, I say let them swing. Embrace it and enjoy it. Why is it that we have to put them away? They provided life to most of us on this planet! I think that in itself, deserves the reward of being free. Honestly, I feel like my boobs were given a 30- year prison sentence that has just been commuted. They are walking out of that jail free!
And I tell ya, they are going to live it up!
Set them free
If you want to wear a bra, GREAT! If not, then DON’T! If they sag, that means you have earned that privilege of aging, and aging in itself is a blessing. It also might mean, that you fed your children and provided life to them, again, a blessing. Either way, those boobs have hung around with you since puberty, and they have done everything you have asked of them. So, if they are asking for a break now, we should be allowed to do that for them. If you think someone won’t like you because they have to look at your stomach to see your boobs, move on. There is more to life than caring what someone thinks of you, because of what they view as an imperfection. Nothing is imperfect about a saggy boob, it’s actually in it’s most perfect form. It’s time women start to be proud of what they were given, what their body has been through, and how far it will continue to take us. Saggy or perky, who cares. There are many women out there who have had breast cancer, with or without a mastectomy, and I am sure they wouldn’t give two damns if they had saggy boobs or not. They would choose life every single time. That is all that matters. So, I’ll take a healthy body, a sound mind, and self-love along with my saggy boobs too thanks.