My Boobs are a Thing

My Boobs are a Thing

Me and My Boobs and some Red Sox World Series Stuff

This is the closest thing I have to a “boob” picture.

When you have big boobs, like I do, they become a thing.

For instance, I am in a bra wasteland right now. I’ve lost two or three or more bras in my house. (And no, Edmund is not wearing them. I’m pretty sure.) I don’t want to buy new bras because I have some already. They are perfectly serviceable. And as soon as I find them, I can wear them. Edmund suggests that I buy a new bra, as that means I’ll instantly find my old bras, because that would please the underwear gnomes or something. I’m too much of a Yankee, purchasing new bras would be too wasteful.

We did laundry yesterday. And that meant that it was time to wash my bras. I have two. One regular one for work and/special, and an old, shapeless sport bra. I wash my regular bras in the “hand wash” (washed on gentle cycle in cold water, hung up to dry). The sport bra goes with everything else in the dryer. When we got home from the laundromat I forgot to make sure that my regular bra was close to the fan [we have a rack for our “hand wash” in the living room.]

Do you see what’s happening here? Do you know what I’m going to say?

Yes. My regular bra was too wet to wear to work this morning. So I had two choices: wear my shapeless sport bra; or go braless.

Guess which one I chose.

If you chose braless, you would be wrong! Yes, I wore the unflattering and shapeless sport bra.

Go me.

If I had my druthers, I would’ve gone braless. I would still worn a shirt. Although I support Moira Johnston’s topless crusade in NYC, I was at work, where there is air conditioning and professionalism. Generally, Bouncing, Buoyant Boobies are kept under wraps in the workplace.

On days like these, I rail at society (“society, man!”) that constricts me to wear something that I don’t really feel like wearing. Because, when your boobs (bodacious tatas) are on the ginormous size, people notice when they are all hanging out there. Don’t get me wrong, I like my breasts. My identity is wrapped around those bountiful secondary sex characteristics like nobody’s business.

[If you were paying attention you might have realized that while Eddie and I did laundry yesterday, I was not wearing my bra. How could I have been if both my “active” bras were in the wash?]

When I venture in public without a bra I try to layer up. It’s easier to do so in the winter. Much harder in the summer. A nice sweatshirt or windbreaker hides my swaying melons from sight.

Think about it. Why are women (especially large breasted women) expected to wear bras? What purpose does a bra serve? How did bra-wearing become the ideal?

What happens to you when you go into public without a bra? Well, if you are spectacularly unlucky and visiting your local Wal-Mart, you could get a candid photograph taken of you in your dishevelment. Said photo to be published on a very popular website rife with other pictures of its ilk. For me, it’s important to remember, I have the double whammy. Not only am I large breasted, I’m fat. So the derision heaped on the merely plump or slightly overweight large-breasted diva could be heaped on me ten-fold.

What kills me the most is that the only restrictions to whether one should wear a bra or not are based on social “laws” not actual laws. These social laws are enforced by other women and men. The punishment: ridicule and ostracism. If you generally want to be liked (me) that becomes an issue.

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes wearing a bra is great. If I had a choice on wearing a bra or not, I would pick up the bra every now and again. It would be nice to have the choice.

Edited to add:
My pal Margaret sent this to me on Facebook. So appropriate.