Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Boobs. Jugs. Cans. Whatever You Call 'Em, This Is a Post About Having Big Ones.

Hey you. Up here.

Oh, hi there. Did you think I didn’t notice you staring at my rack? No, you knew I was going to notice but you thought it wouldn’t matter. You thought because they’re so big that I probably get it all the time, and don’t even mind anymore. I bet you thought because you’re a straight woman, it’s totally kosher to check out my chest.

Hey! I said to stop looking. Get your eyes out of the gutter—and out of my 32 DD cleavage.


Look: it’s not easy having big breasts. Sure, they’re a beach-body bonus and a super hubby date-night accessory. But most of the time, having big boobs is a a big buzz kill.

I spent a couple months for christmas (discounts baby) working as a Victoria’s Secret salesgirl in a mall near my casa. Not only did 85% of women wear the wrong bra size, but 100% of large-chested women looked positively miserable as they surveyed the overpriced sateen garments. They weren’t looking for a sexy push-up, they were looking for mammary redemption.

It was all I could do to not throw my arms around them—but not too close—and say, “I know! The push up bras and the little convertible wonders are just mocking us! Get out now before they talk you into uncomfortable thongs you’ll probably never wear!”

No one takes a woman with huge tits seriously in the business world. In an office, big balls are praised, but big breasts are just stared at. And it’s difficult to appear professional when I’m bloated and I swear to god my breasts have swollen to a F, which I think stands for “F off, I’m cranky and my chest hurts.”

Even worse, nothing fits. Cardigans hang off my shoulders and buttons snap off the front. Clingy tops pull in the wrong places, and sundresses always hang too low and look too provocative for everyday wear. And I can forget going bra-less in the summer—which means I can’t wear cute strapless, backless, or halter dresses.

“But Kasey,” you counter, careful to look me in the eyes this time, “why can’t you just buy a strapless bra?”

Because strapless bras were obviously invented by some 34 B chick who wanted to torture us full-figured ladies with a wired contraption that inhibits both breathing and ever letting go of the sides of your dress. I’d like to be holding onto a cocktail, not tugging at my tethered boobs all night, thank you very much.

I don’t own strapless bras, or fancy bras, or pretty sheer bras trimmed with lace. They don’t make the delicate, sexy strappy cups in my size. I must have told hundreds of desperate Victoria’s Secret shoppers to look elsewhere to support their massive breasts. We want cute convertibles, but we really need pickup trucks to haul these babies around.

We need to really belt them in—and I do belt them in! I really, really do. I swear to god, I have more support around my chest than Betty White has on Facebook. But the fact of the matter is even when they’re strapped tight against me, I still have huge breasts. I have melons. I have the qualifying skills to be a Hooters waitress.

I have just started exercising more often, an activity that I’ve come to loathe since puberty blessed me with gigantic jugs. Low impact? How about no impact. Even with the tightest sports bra on the market,running is an exercise in futility. Which is to say: I will run about 20 yards before I double over in pain. Think I’m crazy? You try jogging around with two ten-pound balloons secured near your lungs and live to write about it. They say the whole city can be your jungle gym, but I’m still waiting for whoever “they” are to install a few elliptical machines in the park.

Of course, having a large rack is not always negative. When I take a break from my feminist responsibilities, owning a pair of enormous tits is terrific. Men are more likely to hold doors, buy drinks and offer you their seat which is kinda nice. However, I'm married, HAPPILY and They’re also more likely to hit on you in an incredibly inappropriate manner, treat you like a piece of meat and try to cop a feel.

So is a wired, elastic, slightly minimizing, usually uncomfortable T-shirt bra the product of a masochistic society? Hell no. I will not burn my bra—it would really be lewd, you guys. It would be too much. It would be seriously profane.

Hey! Goshdarnit. Eyes up here

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