I may not be able to breathe, but I am protected against stray bullets
I make no bones about the fact that I am a fat woman. A large woman. A stout woman. A gravitationally challenged woman. A woman with heft. A woman who fills a room with her, uh, presence when she enters it. This is partly due to the steady stream of anti-inflammatory steroids I pop like candy to ensure my brain doesn't explode, and partly due to Häagen-Dazs and an allergy to perspiration induced by physical activity. If I could work out in a meat locker, I would be so buff, man.
come hither - back off
Said heft is attached to my body in a rather bizarre fashion, again due to said steroids. My face is naturally long, narrow, with high cheekbones and a strong lower jaw, so the chipmunk cheeks caused by steroids actually ensure my cranium appears proportionate to the rest of my body, thank god. If that hadn't happened, I'd probably look like the victim of a New Guinea shrunken head raid. The rest of my body, however, is, shall we say, odd. My hands and lower arms look rather like those of someone without a weight problem, or perhaps slightly overweight. My feet, ankles and lower legs - ditto. Then you look at my abdomen, ass, and upper thighs, and I suddenly appear to be carrying a week's worth of laundry in my pockets. My lower abdomen in particular is quite striking. It's a cliff, an overhang over my genitals to offer sanctuary against the harsh reality of the world. Either that, or I am in fact a marsupial and I am carrying a joey around with me. It looks rather like someone literally stitched a large fanny pack into my stomach.
I've also got that slight curve going on from the upper abdomen just below my breasts down to my bellybutton, which then leads to strangers approaching me in the grocery store and asking when I'm due. After I had spinal surgery, I used to go down one floor and watch TV in the maternity ward. Needless to say, no one asked questions.
Then there are my breasts. In comparison with my monstrous buttocks and gut, my tits are disproportionately small. This simply accentuates the slightly pregnant look by leading to my wee tits resting gently on the slight curve of my upper abdomen in a decidedly gestating way. The advantage to this disproportion is that my boobs are not presently swaying somewhere around my knees. They are not, by any stretch of the imagination (no pun intended) "perky", but neither have they become bovine dugs.
However, just because something is disproportionately small, does not mean they're actually small. No, I do not have tabletops as breasts -
you know the kind I'm talking about, the kind large women can rest their beer and sandwich on - but still, they're 48D.
So why the hell am I providing a detailed account of my tits, you may ask? Well, up until recently I had been quite content to wear sports bras. They offer significant support, prevent accidental blacking of eyes should a person run down the stairs too quickly, and have no uncomfortable snaps, levers, pullies, or wires. They do, however, give one the appearance of having only one massive oblong tit across one's chest, a cyclopsian marvel that would provide a steady stream of income at any circus. A uniboob, if you will. The disadvantage to a uniboob is that there exists a deep, cavernous well down the middle of one's sports bra in the space between the squished boobs. If a person gets comfortable when they get home and removes all unnecessary clothing, as I the pantless wonder do, this can lead to significant impairments in the act of dropping a cigarette or eating popcorn.
It was such an occurrence where, after frantically fishing around for the smoke slowly burning its way through my ribcage, I decided it was time to truly explore my femininity and purchase an actual brassiere.
I have no memory of ever having worn an actual bra. I'm sure I did in my teens and early twenties, but I have no pictures, so I can't confirm or deny this. Bras are evil contraptions. There are snaps and seams and wires and itchy lace and straps the size and consistency of nylon fishing wire that slowly chew their way through your shoulders down to your waist. However, they do serve a necessary function, that of ensuring said mammaries do not get in the way when doing sit-ups, bending down to tie your shoes, or masturbating. As I like to say, "If there's too much sag, there's too much snag." I've heard of tying one's shoelaces together accidentally, but just imagine the shock when a woman tries to stand up too quickly from lacing up her boot and rips one of her tits off because it became trapped in the bow.
Since I've never worn a bra, it was necessary for me to get out ye olde tape measure and figure out just what size bra I actually need. After all, a sports bra really doesn't give a shit what your cup size is. You're an F? Not anymore you aren't. Welcome to the world of C. Yeah, OK, so the circulation to your tits has been cut off, but boy, do you ever have support. Those babies won't even move in an F4 tornado, trust me.
The tape measure did reveal to me my lack of nubile perk, of course, in that when measuring my band size directly under my breasts, I could actually let go of the tape measure - and it would stay put. My breasts acted like vice grips, trapping the plastic tape like some kind of fleshy Venus Flytrap with a hankering for PVC.
Bra size in hand (so to speak), I ventured onto the internet to shop. Oh, I do most of my shopping on the internet. Internet shopping was invented for people like me. I can internet shop without ever having to venture into a department store or mall corridor, without having to put up with crowds of irritatingly meandering window shoppers and overzealous sales clerks. I can make the loathesome experience, not pleasant, but tolerable. So off for bras I went.
Two hours later, I was ready to pick my monitor up and throw it through the fucking window.
Holy jesus fuck, people. You do realize how many fat people there are in North America alone, right? And you are aware that fully half of them are toting tits around, correct? So why, pray tell, has no one yet come up with a way to build a bra strong enough to support overwhelmingly ample bosoms while still retaining a product that looks like a fucking bra? What, we can build televisions the size of walnuts, but we can't find fabric other than kevlar to hold the weight of big gazoongas? And is it really necessary to carry the bloody fabric all the way up to a woman's neck? Is the extensive cleavage revealed from having such enormous melons so overpowering to the observer's mind that we must protect them against the trauma? And precisely just how many fucking hooks and eyes do you need on a bra? Can you imagine the absolute hell and damnation a man would have to go through to dismantle 6 bloody rows of the things? He'd have to plan ahead and start working on the project the night before.
These things aren't bras. They are suits of armour. They are fabric versions of an iron maiden. They are, in fact, bulletproof vests. The cups of said monstrosities are designed in such a way that anyone wearing them either looks like a) someone in a Madonna stage get-up gone horribly, horribly wrong, or b) the warden of a women's prison. There is no way a human being could breathe in those bras. Never mind that the fabric encases your lower face; it's so damn thick with so many knobs, buttons, ties, straps, and snaps that a person's lungs would simply collapse under the sheer weight and pressure. Oh, don't mind my blue lips, Harold. Anything for a little extra support in my life, and we do live in a rough neighbourhood, so I can shield you from any stray gunfire and we'll both live.
There was no way, not a damn chance, I was spending good money on these things. In fact, I immediately stopped what I was doing and wrote a long, heated letter to the president of Playtex, enquiring as to why they can make tampons encased in aerodynamic space-aged heat-resistant plastic, but can't build a buxom brassiere without involving steel scaffolding.
Eventually I felt I had no choice but to search and purchase titholders with a smaller band size, and then subsequently also purchase band extenders for bras. I just went for those soft cup thingies with underwiring - no itchy rash-inducing lace and such, somewhat flattering, and ensuring each of my tits is separate and unique from the other.
Oh dear god, underthings! Someone shield the children's eyes!
And if they don't bloody fit, I am going to take them down to the office of Playtex and wrap them around the head of the president, thereby suffocating him to death.
Not that I'm bitter or anything. Noooooo. I am, however, sore, bruised, and bloody-nosed from all that jumping up and down in frustration.
I wonder how long it takes for a black eye to fade.
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