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Posts Tagged ‘cup size’

I’ve been working my way through some of the great suggestions I received in response to my “stuck on repeat” post a little while ago and tonight it’s time for another one.  This time it’s one that came from my fab friend Fahrin, who is an amazing writer herself – check out her regular column “Behind the Brim” over at Little Miss Wife.  Thanks for the idea!

“Something you appreciate now that you don’t have it anymore.”

When I first read this prompt, one answer came to me immediately and I dismissed it.  No, that’s not right, I’m meant to be digging deeper and finding something very different than one my first instinct was.  I bounced it around in my mind for a few more days before deciding that I should have just gone with the first response.  First instincts are first instincts for a reason, usually because they end up being right.

So here it is, not deep or earth-shattering or soul-changing but the truth, as I see it right now anyway, for whatever that matters.

The thing that I appreciate now that I don’t have it anymore is…my boobs.

I know, probably not what you were expecting but it wasn’t what I was expecting the answer to be either, until I realized it was.

Growing up I was never particularly well-endowed.  I always looked on with envy at the girls who started wearing training bras early in high school while the most I could justify was a camisole.  I soon realized that was to be my lot in life and tried to focus on the positive.  They never got in the way when I was playing sports.  I never had to worry about embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions when out with my friends.  I never had to worry that a boy liked me “just because” of what I looked like.  To be perfectly honest, for most of my high school career I was skinny, shy, and possessed the holy trifecta of teenage wallflowers – the perm, the braces and the glasses.  If a boy was going to like me at all it was definitely going to be more about what was going on on the inside.

As I grew up, I ditched the perm, the braces and the glasses and slowly began to come into my own.  Well-endowed I would never be, but I was a comfortable B.  Nothing crazy but I was proud of them in their own little way.

Then I got pregnant and the world decided to provide me with what I had always dreamed of but was afraid to wish for…a solid C.  It was wonderful, so wonderful that I hardly noticed the growing belly that went along with them.  I was just so excited.  I could fill out tops that I’d only dreamt of wearing before and was actually more willing to be seen in a bathing suit than at any other point, expanding waistline be damned.

But, of course, as with so many other aspects of pregnancy and birth, I was not provided with the whole story.  I didn’t realize my beautiful C’s were not mine to keep, but were, in fact, only on loan. And the payment for my blissful year and a half as a woman with a “decent rack” was actually far higher than I ever expected.  When they went, they also took with them the beautiful B’s they had once been, leaving me with the chest of my previously 13-year old self.

I went through the process again when I had my second child, only this time I appreciated every minute they were mine because I knew how fleeting it was.  I wore tops that were perhaps a touch low-cut and maybe a tad bit tighter than they needed to be because I knew, soon enough I would be back into the land of push-ups and padded bras, faking what used to be there for real.

On the rare occasion when I decide to “treat” myself to undergarments that I don’t grab at the grocery store on my way to the freezer section for ice cream, I am disheartened to discover that I can’t even get my size in the store.  One day, after what seemed like hours spent combing the racks I finally gave up and asked the smiling sales girl behind the counter, only to be told that I would have to order “that size” online.  Sure, a DD they carry but a 36 A is just too much to ask?  Are you kidding me?  Has the entire world become more busty as my poor chest moves in the opposite direction?

Some days I try to be okay with it.  I try to accept the fact that that’s the way it is going to be and I tell myself it could be worse.  And it could, let’s be honest, there are about a million things more worthy of complaint that the sad state of my boobs but, at the end of the day, it matters to me.

I wish it didn’t.

I wish I didn’t care but I do.

I know that the sum of who I am can’t be measured in a cup size and that beauty of any kind is fleeting, I just wish I could have appreciated what I had while I had them, and rocked that string bikini when I had the chance!

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