Suburban Snapshots

My Milkshake

Thursday, July 22, 2010

It's been a while since we talked about my boobs. It seems they're continually evolving, these tiny little breasts of mine, but not into the full, upright position. (Also, I find that any entry with the word "boobs" in it gets me higher traffic from search engines. Prior to you all rocking my world with the frat party post, an entry called "Mama Boobs" was #1 for months.)

Even at my heaviest, I top out at a 36A. On someone who's almost 5'11" and hardly small-framed, that equals the topography of a pair of chicken pocks. I actually envy people who can create cleavage with duct tape.

When I was pregnant, my little pocks grew. To my delight I moved up to a B cup — to my sheer, unbridled ecstasy, the woman at the maternity undergarments store advised me to buy an even larger cup for nursing. It almost made me forgive this particular chain of stores for their ridiculous checkout interrogation where before you can just hand over your goddamn money and leave the freaking store, you've got to politely decline giving out your phone numbers, zip code, refuse enrollment in 42 different New Mommy clubs, agree to their stringent return policy and promise to name your baby-to-be after the sales clerk who assisted you.

36C was perfect on me. I could have put up with engorgement, pumping, and restricting my breasts to their On Duty status indefinitely because of how great they felt, how nice they made my clothes look, the fantastic cleavage. I loved the weight of them, I was surprised by how, uh, attached I grew to them because really, aside from the dread of bra shopping before, I never gave them much thought.

I stopped nursing Anna at 11 months and within weeks my period — which had taken a blessed 21-month hiatus — was back and my spectacular rack was gone, and then some. I took friends' advice and got myself fitted for a 'real' bra, as opposed to whatever was on clearance at Marshall's for ten bucks or less. The girls and I had a little renaissance then, with the fifty-dollar bra. A few months later I signed my increasingly mushy self up for Weight Watchers.

I've since dropped about 15 pounds. The fifty-dollar 36A now has enough room for my boobs and a couple of contraband Quarter Pounders. So while I'm delighted to be back in my skinny jeans, I'm less thrilled to find myself browsing training bras. I figure by the time I reach my goal, I'll just need a pair of Band-Aids.

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