Granny Bra Blues
The state of my chest is most unfortunate. If it were a book I might call it "Swing Low: A Tale of Two Titties" or perhaps "Breast of Blessings: When the Cup Hath Runneth Over".
My fiance has named both. The left (Stacey Dash) and the right (Omorosa).
Why you ask?
His response to me, "they're black, gorgeous, and you hate both of them".
Touche, my love. Touche.
My front sacks came into my life at the tender age of 9. I barely remember that fun stage when little girls beg their mothers to buy them a training bra. Nopeity nope. I went from undershirts to underwire in one summer. I went into my 6th-grade year a DD cup...eventually getting accustomed to the pubescent oogles, and sometimes stares from grown men.
It was the breast of times, it was the worst of times. My titty journey has been one plagued with misfortune. Of ill-fitting granny brassieres that only come in three colors: black, white, taupe. Black, white, taupe. By age 15 only black, black, black. By age 22 black, brown, pink. No fun trips to Victoria's Secret with my bosom buddies. Just shameful visits to the unmentionables department at Macy's to let someone's Aunt Ethel feel me up in a fitting room only to tell me they don't carry a bra big enough to fit my bazooms.
I've never owned a tube top. Not even during my slender days. I could never wear a cami or a racer-back top without my granny bra exposing itself to the world. If Granny Bra could talk, I imagine she would say things like:
"Always wear clean underpants in case you get into a car accident."
OR
"Are you wearing a slip under your dress? Proper women wear a slip and pantyhose."
But despite our haphazard relationship, Granny Bra hasalways mostly occasionally been there to support me when I needed her. She's team Petty LaBelle for sure though. My current bra only has one underwire because the other miraculously worked its way out. And during Zumba class of all times! Really Granny Bra? When I need you the most, this is how you treat me?
At the tender age of 30, I've noticed the twins are starting to wear me down. Literally. Each day I lean forward a little closer to the ground. I hover a bit closer to the table. I have the faint appearance of bowing where ever I go. Like a butler. Or a thespian. Or some other person that bows. A hippogriff. Does that count?
My back ALWAYS hurts. I very rarely have a day where I am not in pain. My tens unit has been helpful, but it is only a temporary fix. I fear the day where I will need corrective surgery on my shoulder or spine. I'm sure there are better options out there, but I can never get the fit right. I never find exactly what I'm looking for, and I'm tired of shelling out hundreds of dollars on pretty bras that don't do the one job you need it for.
Perhaps one day I will be free from my mammary bonds...until then, it's just you and me --> me and you, Granny Bra. Here's to you - over the shoulder boulder holder. Hopefully, if my weight loss plans go..well..as planned. Las tatas will shrink before my wedding dress fitting.
My fiance has named both. The left (Stacey Dash) and the right (Omorosa).
Why you ask?
His response to me, "they're black, gorgeous, and you hate both of them".
Touche, my love. Touche.
My front sacks came into my life at the tender age of 9. I barely remember that fun stage when little girls beg their mothers to buy them a training bra. Nopeity nope. I went from undershirts to underwire in one summer. I went into my 6th-grade year a DD cup...eventually getting accustomed to the pubescent oogles, and sometimes stares from grown men.
It was the breast of times, it was the worst of times. My titty journey has been one plagued with misfortune. Of ill-fitting granny brassieres that only come in three colors: black, white, taupe. Black, white, taupe. By age 15 only black, black, black. By age 22 black, brown, pink. No fun trips to Victoria's Secret with my bosom buddies. Just shameful visits to the unmentionables department at Macy's to let someone's Aunt Ethel feel me up in a fitting room only to tell me they don't carry a bra big enough to fit my bazooms.
I've never owned a tube top. Not even during my slender days. I could never wear a cami or a racer-back top without my granny bra exposing itself to the world. If Granny Bra could talk, I imagine she would say things like:
"Always wear clean underpants in case you get into a car accident."
OR
"Are you wearing a slip under your dress? Proper women wear a slip and pantyhose."
But despite our haphazard relationship, Granny Bra has
At the tender age of 30, I've noticed the twins are starting to wear me down. Literally. Each day I lean forward a little closer to the ground. I hover a bit closer to the table. I have the faint appearance of bowing where ever I go. Like a butler. Or a thespian. Or some other person that bows. A hippogriff. Does that count?
My back ALWAYS hurts. I very rarely have a day where I am not in pain. My tens unit has been helpful, but it is only a temporary fix. I fear the day where I will need corrective surgery on my shoulder or spine. I'm sure there are better options out there, but I can never get the fit right. I never find exactly what I'm looking for, and I'm tired of shelling out hundreds of dollars on pretty bras that don't do the one job you need it for.
Perhaps one day I will be free from my mammary bonds...until then, it's just you and me --> me and you, Granny Bra. Here's to you - over the shoulder boulder holder. Hopefully, if my weight loss plans go..well..as planned. Las tatas will shrink before my wedding dress fitting.
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