An Unsexy Post About Boobs (unless of course you’re my husband, then that’s just oxymoronic.)

I was over at Jennifer’s MySpace page, watching a clip of her reading a chapter from her new book. (Out September 5th!)

As I was admiring her appearance, I noticed how beautifully she filled out her top. I mean, the girl’s got some smokin’ hooters. (Yes I just said Hooters)

And it hit me out of nowhere. I’m still trying to figure it out:

I kind of miss my big boobs. (cue the screeching of tires and watch the world stop here)

Back in 2001, I was lamenting to my friend Cindy about how I hated my boobs. To say they were big would be an understatement. I’d always hated them up to that point. Before I hit puberty, they were no bigger than mosquito bites, but something happened and my great grandmother’s genes woke up and blessed me with gargantuous knockers. Sure I had girlfriends who were envious. But being 13 and looking like a 17 year old isn’t fun. My body looked out of proportion with those babies taking up the better half of my torso. And buying bras? An absolute nightmare. I couldn’t fit into those cute little Victoria’s Secret bras. Not even by digging in the very bottom drawer under the display racks. I had to special order them. And we were poor. My mother didn’t much like my boobs either.

I remember watching Soleil Moon Frye go through the same thing. But she was able to afford a breast reduction. I remember feeling hopeless that I’d be stuck with these two curses forever. I mean sure, I had my moments, I could fill up a prom dress like nobody’s business. But I had to buy a dress two sizes bigger than I was just to fit my chest, then had to have the bottom part altered down to fit the lower half of my body.

And let’s not even get in to bathing suits and the North Carolina heat. Suffice it to say, I had major chaffing issues.

SO back to Cindy. She mentioned that our other friend Stephanie had just had a reduction the year before, paid for by her insurance company. This sparked my interest. Within a month, I’d scheduled an appt with her plastic surgeon and within another month, I was approved for the surgery.

Finally in June of 2001, I went under the knife. I won’t lie, it’s pretty invasive. You can’t sleep on your stomach or side for two weeks, and you have to stay pretty much bedridden during the healing process, also, you can’t lift your arms above your head, lest you scar too much. I went from a DDD to a B cup in less than four hours.
But even with a sore ass from sleeping and sitting on it for two whole weeks, changing bandages every two hours, and having to have Howard help me bathe, I never looked back. I never regretted it. Not even now, when I only have partial feeling in them, and I have visible scars.
I no longer have backpain, I no longer have ridges in my shoulders from the weight of them in my bra, I no longer feel self conscious.  I can buy cute bras from Victoria’s Secret. I can even wear tight, fitted, little shirts. Hell, some days? This girl doesn’t even wear a bra.
But now…I have problems filling up bra…and filling up those tight, fitted, little shirts. Cleavage? There ain’t none unless I wear a push up bra. And those are the times I kind of miss them. Kind of. And of course, Howard has less to grope.

But even though I kind of miss having a full set, I think people like Jennifer carry them much better than I ever did.

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