I have 6 different sizes of bra in my wardrobe. I have worn all of them in the past year.
Half of me was an early bloomer. Relatives used to tease me about having “mosquito bites” in the fifth grade, and I innocently thought they were actually referring to real mosquito bites when they were, in fact, referencing my lopsided chest. My left side decided to start developing breasts at the tender age of 10 while my right side clung to its girlish body. I was immensely embarrassed of this. A friend of my mother’s, who happened to be a physician, came for a visit and my father thought it would be useful to consult this friend about my breasts, questioning whether they would always be that way or would things correct themselves in time, as though having lopsided breasts would become a pandemic to be feared and its victims shunned into asylums.
I remember my mother taking me bra shopping for the first time and buying me not the cute little training bras that all my friends wore, but very womanly underwire B-cup bras while my mom wore an A cup. I was 11. And the chest kept growing.
By the time I was 17, I was very comfortably into a D cup, although I often crammed those puppies into a C. High school girls aren’t supposed to have D cups. They are supposed have cute perky boobs without their own gravitational pull. And even though most high school guys have boobs on the brain 24/7, it seemed that a smaller chest was indirectly proportional to how popular a girl was with said boys. Make sense to you? I didn’t think so.
Over the course of the next two years, I lost over 40 lbs. I was not a big girl to begin with, but I felt that I needed to be thinner (that’s a whole other post) and I got down to an A cup. The cute bras and tiny tops were all mine! But this was not meant to last, since I was clearly well below my body’s natural weight, and they shot back up to a 34C over the course of 2 summer months and a trip to France where several pounds of cheese and baguettes were consumed. My then boyfriend (now husband) was ecstatic. So was his roommate (or so I’ve been told).
Then I started this whole “mom” thing. I had to buy bigger bras twice while pregnant with Sacha. Then I nursed him for 14 months, which left me with saggy “high Cs low Ds”, according to the bra lady who sized me up last summer. Then, my boobs started getting bigger again: enter pregnancy number two. Seven weeks after delivering and breastfeeding Kees, I went to get properly fitted for a nursing bra, since all of mine made my boobs look like they were trying to eat my navel. Where do I stand now?
That’s right. Next to that tiny 32 there is a giant E. Again, the husband is ecstatic.
And I have come to terms with this. I am cursed with ginormous boobs that seem to get bigger with every baby. I tried to wear my bathing suit last week and the girls popped right out the top. I don’t think they even make bikini tops large enough for me. Or supportive enough. I cannot wear most of my shirts, meaning that I was reduced to go shopping and buy large and extra large tops just to fit over my rack. The “XL” on the tag of my T-shirt is a corrosive acid that eats away at my inner-skinny-girl. I keep trying to tell myself that it is only a temporary glitch and that they will go back to normal once I am done having kids. That, or I will have to go back to work to save up for the plastic surgery required to put them back where they belong.
The silver lining to all this: at least I won’t be headed to the asylum anytime soon.