My Cup Runneth Over

Boobs...Tatas...Sweater Shapers...Mammaries...Jugs...Bikini Boosters, whatever you call them, enough is enough and too much is just that, two too much.  Spending all of my teen years in the B-C range, I longed for more.  The saying "be careful what you wish for" was never more true.  Whereas before, I could wear any style shirt, play volleyball, softball and occasionally run if the situation warranted.  NOT anymore.  Though now I'd only be tempted to run after an ice cream truck or away from a rampaging carnivore, but that is a whole ‘nother story.

Before kids and with Rx help to prevent such, my mammary glands jumped rapidly into the D range.  Surpassed it into the mid-alphabet L-M with both boys and settled into the F-G range in my later years.  Petite pretty bras were no longer even a possibility in my life.  Fully functional artillery carriers with enough wire to cage the beasts and set off airline metal detectors around the globe.  While shopping for an F/G cup bikini in Australia, I was greeted with a choice of exactly 2 styles and a hefty price tag as well.

The negatives – Undue attention focused on Bert and Ernie (we’re quite attached, I had to name them), the inability to reach things behind items that are invariably another 2-3 inches away without dislocating a shoulder socket.  Needing to buy dresses two sizes too big for the rest of me to fit the man cannons.  It does give me an excuse to eschew running or jogging as the ensuing two days of pain is not worth it.  And sleeping on my stomach went away after kid #2.  I have to wear patterned blouses to camouflage food drippings that tend to land right in the mid-chest mountain range.

The positives – I get prompt, courteous service at any meat market, auto parts store, hardware retailer or tire center.  Countless times I have found a stray earring in my cleavage I had thought was lost forever.  Our cat had a convenient perch when we watched Downton Abbey together.  I’ve been known to tuck keys, a bottle of beer/ketchup/mustard, cell phone etc. into my cleavage when hands run short for carrying.  I’ve long said you should grow an extra arm with each child – the next best thing is utilizing said cleavage to augment.

For all of their annoyances, I’m glad they served their purpose in nourishing two infants.  So far, they’ve not proven to be cancerous time bombs and have behaved themselves in mammograms. Gym classes, not so much.  Sports bras encourage their migration into a monoboob and they revolt against swimsuit bra liners, making them all but pointless.  Having to ask for alternative maneuvers in yoga was a slightly unnerving moment, but so glad I learned options to avoid launching one against my chin.

A visit to a plastic surgeon to see what reducing options might be available led him to agree that I was a good candidate, but my insurance at the time rejected that idea unless it was for reconstruction after removal for breast cancer. The black sharpie marks showing where my scarring would occur were quite shocking in the light of day and I decided there were many more things I’d like to spend $12K on than smaller boobs.

So while my cup runneth over, the plan is to keep them and manage as best we can.  Although the lower they sag as time marches on, the more I’m reminded of a joke.  What did one boob say to the other boob?  "If we sag any lower, people are going to think we are a couple of nuts!”