When I Thought My Boobs Had Flesh Eating Bacteria, And Other Problems

As of yesterday I was firmly convinced I was suffering from some horrible disease. Without even Googling it, I surmised my left boob must have somehow contracted some sort of flesh eating bacteria and that the rest of my body was not far behind.

There were these divet like holes in my left boob when I took off my bra yesterday, which is what led me to this completely rational conclusion. I say “yesterday” and not “last night” because I speak the truth and the truth is, fuck bras. As someone with G cups I probably shouldn’t be saying that, but there it is. Although word to the wise – don’t go braless in the bathroom – it ends badly.

Anyway, these FLESH EATEN HOLES weren’t exactly holes – more like little craters… like what a really bad acne scar might leave behind. I have a lot of struggles in life, but thankfully boobs covered in huge cystic acne isn’t one of them, so I knew it wasn’t that. So OBVIOUSLY it must be some kind of flesh eating disease.

Except that this morning when I woke up, they were gone. Or rather, when I remembered my panic from yesterday at around noon today and I investigated my tit, they were gone. I’m starting to suspect that it may NOT have been a one day flesh eating bacteria, but rather that I wound up with crumbs in my bra, and they actually left some serious indentations.

The only reason I’m willing to even concede this as a possibility is that last week after a particularly aggressive snacking session, I actually found 2 entire tortilla chips in my bra. That I didn’t notice until hours after I was done with my chips and salsa. I feel you processing that statement. Stop it. Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my bra.

I have yet to put on a bra today, so there has been no possibility of crumb trappage and so far, my boobs are looking the way they should (minus sitting about 3 inches higher, but whatever).

But while we’re on the subject, this is just one in a line of many struggles I have had with my big boobs. Melons. Tatas. Bozongas. Whatever. Big ol’ titties.

So I present to you my top five big boobs struggles (not including thinking you have flesh eating bacteria because of crumbs in your bra, since we’ve already covered that. Probably more than you ever thought you’d read about it).

Seat belts

Seriously. If it’s not getting trapped between my boobs and awkwardly cutting into me, it’s tucked underneath making them look even more indecent, and probably not going to hold me in properly if I were to actually crash. There is no good place for it.


Speaking of no good place to put it, when you have big boobs, your necklace game is limited. Want to wear a great long lariat necklace? Nope, your boobs will completely eat it, and it can get totally lost. Basically looks like you’re flossing your chest. Wearing a killer layered bubble necklace? Beware – the length can create a problem, and so can the shirt you pair it with. It can easily get lost in the abyss. Exhibit A:

necklace big boobs


OK, so this one is tricky because I’m not only large chested, but I’m also a plus size girl, so getting comfortable on those tables can be a challenge, and frankly a little embarrassing at times. Luckily, I have found an amazing massage therapist who helped me figure out a solution without making me self-conscious, and she’s the first. We just double up the head pillow so when I lay on my tummy my boobs aren’t completely suffocating me. Since my head is riding higher, I can breathe, and the position totally works for me. But up until her, that was definitely something that hindered my enjoyment of massages and caused a decent amount of anxiety.

Accidentally looking provocative 

“It’s not my fault!!” This was basically my mantra in high school every time my mom would chastise me for showing too much skin. Seriously, I was just buying clothing that fit, but my high school DD’s had a way of making even plain t shirts look a lot more… adult. I can be wearing exactly the same thing as one of my smaller friends and I will look as if I’m “trying” to show off more skin. Because I have more skin. It’s a catch-22 really – I love the way I fill out so many things, but when I’m heading into an interview and the button on my shirt pops open, that’s not how I want to get the job, you know?


I know. There are endless articles out there about how to get measured properly and find the right bra no matter what size, but I have to say, I’m still searching for my unicorn. Most days it’s a battle between adjusting the shoulder straps and waiting in fear for the underwire to bust and hoping I’m wearing my glasses at the time so I don’t lose an eye. Heads up pregnant friends – no promises I won’t give your kid a black eye if the underwire gives out when I’m holding it – they have a mind of their own. At this point, I’m totally into this wireless bra from Lane Bryant – it’s missing the support of a regular bra, but DAMN it’s comfortable. That will have to be my baby holding bra. I have to protect the children.

There are other struggles to be sure, but these are the ones that top my list right now. Not that I’m complaining really – I wouldn’t trade my boobs for anything, but there are definitely days when they make things a little more challenging. And days when I think they’re trying to kill me, when in reality it’s the tortilla chips that are after me.

Shower Struggles

I was taking a shower tonight after midnight, as I am wont to do, when I was struck with the fear of being crushed by our glass shower door. This is not the first time either. Something is off on the track, or it needs to be oiled (greased? I don’t know, I’m not a shower door technician) and so when I try to close it, it doesn’t glide seamlessly along its track. I basically drag it into place at this point. And then stand there for a full two minutes to make sure it’s not going to come crashing down on me.

Shut up, I know you’re judging me about letting the water run considering California is in a catastrophic drought and all, but you can’t tell me what to do. I have to protect myself from the shower door. Which, incidentally, even if it DID fall off its tracks and down toward me in the shower, I would not be crushed to death. Physics doesn’t work like that, and even I know this logically. Allow me to illustrate…

shower drawing humor

I know, you’re wondering why I haven’t pursued a career as an artist. Or a physicist. This actually took me about 20 minutes to make – I thought it would be easier and then I was just in too deep to stop.

Anyway, I know I won’t REALLY be crushed by the shower door, so after I verify this fact for a few minutes, I move on with my shower.

But it doesn’t stop there. When you are at home alone (which I am tonight), it’s a scientific fact that you are more likely to be attacked by an intruder in the shower if you have shampoo in your eyes. If you get shampoo in your eyes, and you’re alone in your house showering after midnight, just accept the fact that you are the opening scene in a horror movie.

Every noise in the building has me reaching for my Venus razor, because if someone is coming after me, I’m going to seriously inconvenience them with my lady razor before they can bludgeon me to death. It’s super sharp guys, I haven’t used it for much lately.

At this point, I need to rinse my hair so that I’m no longer in danger of intruders, but this opens up a whole new problem. Have you seen Arachnophobia? Did you watch it when you were 7? Cool, me too – we should probably start a support group together.

There is a scene in the movie where the serial killer spider climbs onto the shower head, and as the girl in the movie is rinsing her hair with her eyes closed, it falls off with the water ONTO HER FACE. She doesn’t die I don’t think, but that scene scarred me for life. I would only take baths for like 2 years after that.

So once I survive the spider water, I really have to shave my legs. The bottom half at least – I have to wear a dress tomorrow, but it comes down just past my knee. OK, real talk. Balancing on one leg with the other perched up to shave can be precarious. And if you’ve ever even slightly lost your balance or slipped in the shower, you’ve experienced that feeling of utter panic that you’re going to fall in the shower, crack your head open, and they’re going to find you naked in the shower with hairy legs.

If you happen to be a fat girl, this fear is amplified even further. Honestly, that would be my nightmare to be found naked in my tub in what I can only assume would be the least flattering position ever.

I’ve had a couple ankle surgeries and have had to use a shower bench, but there was one time when I was at my parents’ house and I didn’t have it. I convinced them to bring up a plastic outdoor chair so I could sit on it in their shower and attempt to shave my 4 week post surgery wildebeest legs. Pro tip – don’t do this. I leaned forward too far and the flimsy plastic chair slipped out from under me (shocker, right??) and the only thing that gave me the strength to catch myself and not completely re-break my ankle was the utter mortification at the idea of being found naked by my parents.

Back to this evening though, I finally finished my shower and felt like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (I’m just full of late 80’s movie references today), making it through almost insurmountable obstacles to get to the holy grail. Which is obviously clean hair and smooth legs, ultimately putting me one step ahead of things tomorrow morning, which means an extra 30 minutes of sleep.

And honestly, that’s the main reason I take showers at night – because I’m too lazy to take them in the morning and society (and Gil) have continuously reminded me that not showering for days on end is not a viable option.

And so I share this with you to show you that for someone who really can’t turn their brain off at night, this is the kind of shit that runs through my head EVERY TIME I take a shower. But I keep doing it. For you. And for Gil. Because that’s love.

An Ode To My Procreating Friends

I currently have two best friends who are pregnant. I also have a handful of friends who have had babies in the last couple years. And if I understand correctly, this whole creating a human being from scratch business isn’t a walk in the park on the female body.

There are things that… happen. In fact, I remember being at a baby shower when I was 23, surrounded by my co-worker and all her friends (most of whom were already mothers), choking on my Chardonnay as they told her she should prepare to poop in front of her husband during birth and that her tits were going to resemble deflated balloons by the time her kids were through with her. That is one party I definitely left early.

Side-note: that party was the most effective birth control on the planet. THAT’S what we should be doing for high school kids. Forget these bullshit abstinence programs or just teaching them the practical need for contraceptives. Make these kids sit through a few baby showers. They’ll think twice before getting it on in the bathroom at prom if they know they’ll never be able to sneeze again without peeing their pants.

That actually brings me to my point. I have decided to share a story today as an ode to my pregnant friends and friends with babies. Since I’ll never experience the things you’re going through (not a sad moment, it’s totally by choice), I won’t be able to empathize completely, and I probably won’t be the first person you go to when you want to talk about how your body is betraying you.

But, I have been there on some level. My body has betrayed me too. And today, my procreating friends, I’m going to tell you about it. To level the playing field in a sense, so that if you want to talk to me about something your body is going through, you’ll know I’ve experienced at least a sliver of what you have, and I didn’t even have pregnancy or a baby as an excuse.

It all started when my heels tried to kill me. That’s a story for another day, but the important part of the story is that I shattered my ankle, and required major surgery and more metal than I like to think about to put it all back together. At the time, I was living in my condo alone (this was pre-lumberjack) and so for the first few weeks following surgery I couldn’t stay there. I was on so many pain-killers, and wasn’t even supposed to be up on crutches for the first week.

So, I moved in with my parents (who are completely awesome) and slept in the reclining sofa downstairs. I work in sales, so although I took sick days for that first week, it was the end of the quarter and I had a bunch of contracts I needed to bring in to make my commission. So I worked from home, and got on the phone to try to guilt my customers into getting their contracts all completed on time.

I basically lived in the recliner in my parents’ family room for a couple weeks. I could set up my computer on the couch and talk to customers, and the one downstairs bathroom was literally right behind me. OK. So here’s the thing… when you’re on a couch all day, and you sleep in that reclining couch, you get REALLY tired of it. And it starts to get uncomfortable… you just want to stretch out. So one day while I was working at home alone, I decided to slide off the couch and lay on the carpet to so I could work from there. Much better – mission accomplished. I stretched out like a giant starfish and was generally pretty pleased with myself.

Until about an hour later, when I encountered a slight problem. I had to pee. It was then that I realized the fatal flaw in my plan. I slid off the couch with my freshly butchered ankle elevated no problem, but getting UP without putting any kind of pressure on it wasn’t a trick I had practiced yet.

But no one told my bladder that. NO ONE.  I was clutching the arm of the couch on my knees, trying to remember the physics formula from high school that would give me the answer to this…. what leverage point was going to let me do this without putting myself back in the hospital. Nothing… I couldn’t think of anything. I probably should have been paying more attention in class. But in this moment in time, there was nothing I could do about that. All I could do was desperately start to crawl toward the bathroom and hope I’d figure something out.

I realized in horror I was fighting a losing battle. The sheer panic and humiliation of the situation granted me some superhuman strength, and somehow I was able to use one last burst of energy to pull myself up. And as I did… I peed. I peed my pants. In my parents’ house. Pants I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get off by myself because of the huge cast on my ankle. Pants I couldn’t put in the laundry because I couldn’t get into the garage on crutches. Pants that sat on the bathroom floor in a ball of shame, mocking me. I totally and completely peed my pants.

So, my pregnant and mommy friends… if you ever want to share any mortifying stories or talk about the things your body is going through, just remember that time I peed myself while trying to crawl to the bathroom in my parents’ house, and know that I will never judge you.

Every Body Is Worth Shopping For

I keep buying THINGS. Mostly clothes and shoes. Oh, and makeup.  I think it might be developing into an actual problem. I told my boyfriend last night I was going to return yet another pair of boots that didn’t quite fit, and that I was really going to try to cut down on all my online shopping in order to start saving more. Because you know, taxes. And down payments. And other boring adult things.

And yet I JUST bought a bunch of clothes online. As in, 30 seconds after I hit “purchase” I started writing this. I mean really though, it was buy one get one half off so it almost would have been irresponsible NOT to buy them now, right?? This is the warped logic I can use to convince myself of just about anything. I work in sales and I like to think of myself as a fairly persuasive person. But when it comes to myself, that shit is dangerous.

I know I need to cut back a little, but clicking and spending and buying is so much FUN. It is, you can’t deny it.

But I’m running out of room for all the things. You see, when my boyfriend moved in he got zero hanging closet space – just a consignment nightstand with 2 drawers I shoved in the back corner. That’s it. I kept the rest of the space, and even then, my stuff was overflowing.

So for the sake of our relationship, I’ve been forced to purge my closet at least twice since he moved in. As in, 4 or 5 garbage bags worth of clothes to donate to Goodwill. Not counting shoes. Seriously, I had so many clothes I needed to get rid of.

But that’s the thing when you have fluctuated in size from a 12 to a 22 in the span of about 5 years. You hold on to all those size 12’s because, come on. They are so cute. And so small. And it wasn’t THAT long ago that you fit into them.

On top of which,  you spent good money on them, and someday they’re TOTALLY going to fit again and it would just be a waste of money to re-buy everything. They’re sexy. And inspirational… and such a tease… and actually kind of soul-crushing when you start to think about it too hard and hold them up and realize that isn’t you anymore.

So you purge. But purging your skinny clothes is hard. It feels like defeat in so many ways. It feels like admitting you’re in this fat body for the long haul, and don’t believe you’ll ever get back to that size. It makes you feel so crappy about yourself that you want to sit down and eat a whole bag of Goldfish. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I purged. I said goodbye, because you know what? It was time. And I needed the closet space. And not just so my boyfriend wouldn’t have to store his clothes in the trunk of his car. But because I finally decided in the last year or so to really start shopping for my current body, and to start dressing it in things I actually liked.

I’ve always been a person who loved fashion and took a lot of care in the way I dressed, whether it was silver platform sneakers and matching metallic jacket, or the perfect maxi dress and beaded necklace. But something happened when I got to a size I didn’t like. I stopped shopping. So I literally had nothing to wear, since nothing in my closet fit me anymore.

hanging clothes

I relegated myself to yoga pants and baggy tops pretty much every day. I didn’t go out and supplement my wardrobe, didn’t get different sizes in the styles I actually liked. I had this warped idea that I should not be spending money on THIS BODY. That THIS BODY wasn’t worth anything, financially or otherwise.

That somehow, I’d magically lose the weight and be back in a body that was worthy of love, and worthy of fashion. And in the meantime, I would dress my ugly, frumpy body in ugly, frumpy clothes. And stare at my size 12 jeans and halter tops while I wept into a bowl of ice cream. (The reduced fat kind, because you know, that’s healthier.)

I almost felt like if I punished myself hard enough for being in this fat body, I might somehow shame myself into changing it. Turns out, that’s not how it works. It just starts to feel hopeless. You start to value yourself less every day.

But at some point last year, something clicked. Some part of my brain recognized I am still beautiful, that this is not the final destination on my journey, and that I deserve to decorate, celebrate and otherwise embrace myself as I am right now. Size 2, size 12 or size 22.

Part of that probably has to do with the fact that I was in a great place in my life – good job, great friends and family, and the most supportive boyfriend on the planet. I have to give Gil a lot of credit for helping me learn to love and accept myself again because he’s played a big role in it. And honestly, he still loves my body more than I do, but I’m working on it.

So I shopped. I clicked. I bought. And I remembered how fun it could be. Especially since there are a lot more plus size options available today than there were a few years ago. I filled my closet with leopard-print tops, black leggings, wide calf boots, bold print maxis, V-neck tees, fitted blazers, and SO MANY STATEMENT NECKLACES.

It didn’t feel like defeat – it felt amazing.

And then a weird thing happened. Over time, I started to like how I looked a little more. I started to feel a little better. I started to want to celebrate my body in other ways, like trying yoga for the first time. I mean obviously I’ll have to go shopping for some yoga outfits first, but I’m on the right path.

Turns out my incessant shopping has actually been an important step in the right direction for me. At that’s exactly what I’ll remind Gil every time a new package shows up at our front door.

I’m Not Perfect… And That’s OK

I’m not perfect, and I have to come to terms with that. Weird statement, right? Who would be so egotistical to think that perfection was even an attainable option? And what would “perfection” look like anyway? I don’t think I’m anywhere close to perfect. And for some reason, my own flaws are really difficult for me to accept, especially when it comes to appearance. Bananas, right? A woman with self-esteem issues tied to her appearance?? I’m a trailblazer.

Seriously though, I have definite hang-ups about my appearance and I’m working on them. Most of the time, I can accept and generally love the person I am but it rears its ugly head at strange times. Like when my boyfriend wants to shoot our Christmas card in a rush and we won’t have time to take enough shots to make sure I’m comfortable with the angles (angles… never underestimate the power of angles and lighting in photos) so I have a mini meltdown just thinking about it. Or when we’re late for an appointment, but I have to scramble to throw on makeup because I’m broken out and wildly uncomfortable with a truly naked face.

Why does it matter so much to me? Who I am so worried about impressing? We all know true confidence comes from within, but damn, it sure is nice to get a little outside validation from time to time, amiright? I’m lucky enough to be with a person who loves me unconditionally, and who truly believes I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, inside and out. AND he verbalizes it. Daily. I mean, come on. This is the shit of fairy tales.

As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I think being with someone who is so effusive about my beauty is helping me feel better about myself. I wish I could say I feel confident in who I am and how I look all the time, all on my own, but that’s just not the case. And that’s OK. Being with Gil has basically given me a bar to strive towards: I want to feel as good about myself as he seems to feel about me. I want to embrace the beauty he sees, and see myself through his eyes.

I was feeling particularly vulnerable yesterday as I was struggling with a massive breakout, and there is only so much that makeup can really do. So I threw on a bright lipstick and a big scarf and made my way to the office. That night, I crawled into bed exhausted from the day, and stuffed up from some kind of sinus issue and felt, well, disgusting. I finally wiped away all the makeup I had on for the day, and was completely exposed. Face full of zits. And as Gil laid down next to me and looked into my face after I’d just blown my nose in a towel (don’t judge me), all he could see was beauty. He told me (like he does every night) how beautiful I am and how much he loves me.

I know I’m bordering on disgusting and sappy right now, but I have a point, I promise. In that moment, I had a burst of confidence in my beauty, however you choose to define that word. I spent the whole day at work checking my makeup and trying to camouflage the things I was self-conscious about, wondering if I looked OK. And then in that moment laying in bed, with not a stitch of makeup on and all my flaws completely exposed, I reveled in that feeling… the feeling of being beautiful and loved.

So I documented it. And now I’m sharing it here. Naked. Vulnerable. Not perfect. But feeling happy with my life, my relationship, and the woman I am. If that’s not beauty, I don’t know what is.