I love my boobs. I really do. My bra size is somewhere around 42G at this point, mainly because I’ve gained weight recently (but we won’t get into that right now). But even before that, I was always a top heavy girl. And I embraced it – there are a lot of things that look really great when you’ve got the cleavage to fill it out, and Christina Hendricks is my girl crush and style icon who knows how to rock her figure on the red carpet. Damn, girl.
But as those “Busty Girl Problems” comics have pointed out, there are some pitfalls to living the ample bosom life. From struggling to find a bra that will hold you up and in without resembling something your grandmother would wear, to battling where to put the seat belt, to strategically trying to position yourself when you lay face down for a massage, there are certain things that present more of a challenge.
By the time the end of the day rolls around, my bra feels like an underwire prison and all I want is to let my magnificent melons be free.
I am constantly taking of my bra as I’m walking from room to room in the condo – you can find bras in the living room, hooked on the handle of the bathroom door, or on the floor next to the bed, flung aggressively off my body as soon as possible. For someone who needs as much support as I do, I literally almost never wear a bra at home.
But I have a warning for my fellow busty beauties… beware going braless in the bathroom. I was in the bathroom getting ready for work a couple of months ago, and I wasn’t quite ready to strap in for the day. I mean, 4 hooks in the back and more underwire than I know what to do with? I’ll put that shit off as long as possible, thankyouverymuch.
I was running late (as usual) and scrambling to get out of the house at a reasonable hour without resembling a sea creature. I threw on some makeup, brushed my teeth and then caught a glimpse of my hair. My unwashed, dark roots showing, scraggly ass hair. I didn’t have time to wash it, but I grabbed the dry shampoo and plugged in the curling iron. Can you see where this is going?
While the curling iron was heating up, I threw on my pants and shoes and headed back into the bathroom where my bra was hanging. OK, I had a choice here: throw a couple curls into my hair and then put on my bra, or the other way around? I went curls first. Wrong decision. Terrible decision. Awful decision. Never make that decision ladies. Although before I tell you exactly what happened, I want to point out that I did make it through the actual curling of my hair unscathed – I’m a wizard with my curling iron at this point. No, the trouble came when I was finishing up, and had already turned off the curling iron and just needed to put on some mascara. I did the unthinkable. I LEANED OVER. I FUCKING LEANED OVER WITHOUT A BRA ON.
When you have natural boobs that are that size, they are PENDULOUS. And they hang lower than you think they do ladies. I barely had time to register the pain of the burn when my boob made contact with the still-hot curling iron. It happened so fast, and it’s all a little fuzzy at this point. I won’t go into details (because it’s disgusting) but keep in mind how delicate the skin on breasts is. It went the way you think it did.
I hit the ground without realizing I’d even dropped, but there I was, writhing on the bathroom floor in pain and clutching my naked chest. I don’t even want to know what it looked like, but I have to imagine it was not one of my finer moments. I don’t even remember if Gil was still home at that point or if he was pounding on the door, but all I can say is that I’m thankful the door was closed. We have seen each other in some compromising positions over the course of living together, but me flopping around like a wounded manatee clutching my boob and screaming, “WHY? OH GOD, WHY?” in some twisted naked version of that Nancy Kerrigan scene seems like something that can wait until we are a few more years in.
And what do you do about a quarter sized burn on your milky white breast? I couldn’t go to work without a bra – it would be indecent. All I could do was keep it clean, and cover that shit with a leopard print Band-Aid until it healed.
And now I bear the battle scars my friends. A mark on my otherwise wondrous tatas that will forever remind me of the dangers of having big boobs in the bathroom. A mark to remind me that when I’m running late, the best solution is a messy topknot or a baseball hat. A mark to remind me to always keep the counters clear, and to NEVER EVER lean over without a bra strapped tightly around my chest. A mark to prove the struggle is real, people.