bra

 

This post was meant to be about using up unwanted skin care products on your boobs and chest, but it would have only been this long…

…crickets…

So I have decided to write about life with my boobs, which will hopefully come out the other end having enlightened, entertained, and potentially strengthened your self esteem with ‘Tales From Inside My Bra’.

When I was a teenager in the early 90s, I felt zero pressure to have anything other than the breasts I was given, which was great, because I was slow to develop, and, as I shared in my post about aging, was suffering enough with unnecessary, non boob related, self esteem issues.  Our magazines featured humble breasted women, even flat chested types, especially as we entered the ‘Heroin Chic’ era of Kate Moss and pals.  The only ‘media boobs’ I can recall from that time were Anna Nicole Smith in her Guess campaign, and Pamela Anderson who was a laughing stock to me, and not at all titspirational.  I really didn’t care, and witnessing the current bombardment of boobs in today’s media, and our subsequent obsession with them, I’m extremely thankful for that.  My impressionable teenage self didn’t need to add to the list of perceived faults I was already battling with.

As my body confidence improved in my 20s, so my cup size grew – purely coincidental.  I was pretty happy with my self proclaimed ‘flashable’ boobs, that, for the record (and Mum), I never actually flashed, but if I had to, their exposure would have surely been welcomed.  They were by no means big.  An average 12C that upsized, in my late 20s, to a D when I put on an extra 8 kilos for some pastry reason sour cream.  It was more about shape and how they fit in clothes that concerned me.  I didn’t wear padded bras, instead opted for slinky or cotton soft cups that showed my natural (uneven) size, shape and nipples – thanks to Rachel from ‘Friends’ for the green light(s) there.  So, all in all, no hang ups about my baps in my 20s.

Just before turning 30, I moved from Brisbane to the Globe Coast, I mean Gold Coast, or ‘Cleavage Town’.  There were boobs everywhere, but as I was carrying around my ‘Biggest Boobs Yet’, I wasn’t the least bit fazed.  It was around this time that I met Husbo.  We met at a quality establishment with an exceptional reputation for civilised refreshment consumption, and sarcastically made our way through the latter part of the evening, sharing a quiet beverage or seven and intellectually stimulating dance floor pash conversation.

Being a true gentleman, Husbo paid me a rather unusual, but lovely compliment – “You’ve got nice wrists”.  “Um, thanks? They’re small, but sure, my wrists are great?”.  Turns out we were having a ‘Lost in Translation’ moment, and through his New Zealand accent,  he was actually saying ‘breasts’.   I married him anyway.

With the pastry weight dropped, I was back down to a 10C/D for the next few years.  During that time I had a piercing to correct an inverted nipple.  I’d love to say that it was because I was super cool and hard core, but no, just fixin’ an innie.  It sort of  worked, but what really popped that sucker out, was pregnancy.  Ahh, pregnancy and motherhood, what a bittersweet time it is for our mammaries.  At no point during the growing, nursing, having my body returned to me phase, did I like my boobs.  They were either huge, veiny, hard as rocks, leaky, sore, heavy, and all the while with massive nipples.  The presence of my twins – actual human baby twins, not my breasts – was the only pleasant thing about my pregnancy and post natal experience.  Everything else sucked.  I couldn’t breastfeed my babies, so my milk disappeared quickly and, after about five weeks, my body became mine again.  A shell of my former self, I had no muscle tone and was left with tiny sacks on my chest, but with the biggest nipples I’d ever seen.  The lady who had pierced my nipple, described them as ‘juicy’, so right off the bat I was dealing with some larger than average nips.  I was OK with that, as I was about everything going on in that region…at that time.  Post pregnancy me, however, felt very different.

The pressure to be a sexual being again was getting stronger, as my husband was missing the adventurous and passionate woman he had been so lucky to marry.  So lucky.  Now, I’m not sure how the rest of you feel, but my own reflection has a huge impact on how up for it I am.  My self esteem regarding my physical appearance is in direct correlation to how much sex I’m having and enjoying.  It shouldn’t, but it is, and at that time I was not in a good place with the image staring back at me.  It was the first time I had been grossly unhappy with my breasts.  I knew everything else, except for maybe my stretched beyond the laws of physics belly, had the potential, through hard work, to go back to what it was, but I was at a loss as how to reclaim my former boobs.  They literally made me cry.  My nipples were so big and heavy, that they drooped, and it was that reality that I just couldn’t accept, or bring myself to embrace as a new part of me.  For the first time, I understood why women resorted to surgery, as I searched for my options to fix what I was unable to change myself.

My focus shifted pretty quickly after a routine check up at the doctors.  She suggested that at my age and with a family history of breast cancer, that I should go for an ultrasound.  Nothing serious, just to get a better look at what was going on inside my skin.  So, eternally optimistic little old me, trotted off to have my scan, expecting a squeaky clean bill of health as a result.  Well, for the 24 hours that followed, my world had turned upside down, as the technicians had found not one, but two suspicious lumps inside my left breast.  I was a mess until the doctor confirmed that they were most likely benign lesions, that were probably a result of blocked milk ducts or abnormal hormonal activity.  I followed up with another ultrasound six months later, to make sure they hadn’t grown in size.  Everything was fine, and I set about showing my boobs some more love and forgetting all about the surgery I was going to put them through.  Poor boobies.

Pastry once again came to the rescue.  As my daughters were getting easier to handle and demanding less of my time, I could finally eat better and more frequently, and so my boobs grew.  Everything else did too, but I was cool with that, because just a few extra kilos pumped up the empty chest sacks I had been swinging about, and my jumbo nipples had calmed the f*ck down and started to behave again.  Even the extra weight on my belly had created a cushion under my wrinkly skin and smoothed it out a bit.  I am much happier with the slightly more padded version of my body as opposed to the saggy, wrinkled, deflated one.  Because now I can eat whatever I want, knowing that if I want to avoid the surgeons knife or tearful episodes in front of the mirror, all I have to do is keep my weight up and the girls (not my daughters this time) will look just the way I like them and we will all be happy – including Husbo, who is developing ‘feeder’ like behaviour, by encouraging me to eat all of the bakery.  He likes the boobs.

Thank you once again for reading all about me.  I would love to hear from you if you would like to share your thoughts or experiences on this topic.  I think we all view our breasts and their importance differently, as we are all so individual in this area.  However you may feel about them, I hope that you are giving your boobs the love and kindness they deserve by getting regular breast health checks and having a good old feel yourselves.  My breast wishes to you all.

LISTEN : KELIS  Milkshake