Boob Job

Just to keep you all abreast of my current boob situation (abreast, get it? ahaHAha! oh, I kill me), here’s an update related to the last entry:

As a late Christmas present from my husband’s bank account to myself, I snuck into a glitzy Nordstrom’s yesterday for my very first professional bra fitting. I’ve never paid more than $10 for a bra, so keeping myself from hissing and spitting in the presence of the “cheap” $80 brassieres took a certain kind of mental willpower I normally do not posess.

I was, however, soothed by three very logical arguments as to why this a necessary purchase: 1. Seeing as how I’ve never measured myself or have been measured, I am probably wearing the wrong bra. 2. Said bra is pushing (*snerk*) two and a half years old and is the only bra I possess that has a semblance of elastic left in its skinny little band. 3. I am growing a fetus in my breasts as opposed to my belly–yes, yes, Broodling already knows where the goodies are at–and this has caused me a great deal of back and shoulder pain over the past four months. More so than normal, I mean.

So, squaring my shoulders as much as my boobs would allow, I walked into that glaringly white, upper-middle-class store wearing a 36C-. I was fairly confident that I would be a 38C+, and perhaps even a 40D! Man, I never thought I’d be a D cup!

After much poking and prodding and lifting by a sweet woman that would be considered sexual harrassment under any other circumstance, I fled the premesis with two 32DDs worth close to $50 each. Do you know how many bras I can buy at Target with that kind of money? Actually, forget the bras–my old one should have about a year left in it, and Aaron really needs some socks…

But yeah, Thirty. Two. Double. D. That’s a big “whoa, what!?” right there. The stupid thing feels like a corset compared to the other one, but at least my shoulders are feeling a little better.

So, tell me: what are you growing in your breasts? Anyone else here had any trouble finding support systems?

Dear Broodling (part 5)

Dear Broodling,
I’ve been meaning to talk to you for quite some time about an issue that concerns me greatly: breasts. I know you know what they are, especially since I have proof that you were the one who turned the puberty switch back on again to make them grow.

Despite my attempts to avoid exposing you to the more sordid aspects of American culture, you’ve gotten the foolish notion that bigger is better. Allow me to firmly disabuse you of this theory: a woman does not require mammoth mammary glands to be a food receptacle for her offspring! Indeed, all you need are boobs and female hormones, all of which I had long before I met you.

While it is true that some women are excited by the idea that their bosoms will snap their bra straps with new growth, I am not one of those women. There were two bouncy, spherical reasons I was popular in college, and I saw no reason to augment them. The already swollen double Cs were fine the way they were, thank you very much.

But now, my cups overrunneth. I no longer fit into any of my shirts–or most of Aaron’s, for that matter. These bulky, dense globes of mine are comically large, and my ribcage isn’t laughing.

In order to make you fully aware of why I object to your desires for Dolly Parton’s thorax, I need to let you know that growth = pain. There is no growth, especially sudden growth, without pain. Not only are my nipples so sore will I bite the fingers off of anyone who looks at them (read: your poor father), the muscles supporting them are feeling the strain. My teardrop-shaped bosom buddies are not merely attached at the collarbone; indeed, they arch up and over the neck and end in my lower back region. My forced hunch has erased what little good posture I had, which frankly doesn’t help the situation.

Also, my skin apparently missed the memo about needing to stretch everywhere you want to deposit fat, and has instead started pumping out sweat in panic. Needless to say, this makes for a very itchy, and therefore cranky, Broodmother.

Aaron keeps wondering why I refer to you with masculine pronouns, and has started referring to you as female for “balance” purposes. What he fails to understand is that I am convinced you are male, as I can’t imagine a girl would wish this sort of mammary displeasure on a fellow woman. You, mister, are busted.

Love,
Your voluptuous mother.