The size of my boobs have gone up and down like a brown paper bag being used by a hyperventilating neurotic.
At one point they were massive droopy blobs, spilling out of bras and making the loosest shirt somehow tight and provocative. A breast reduction later I had perfect C boobs. The best shirts showed a hint of cleavage while accentuating the rest of my body.
Because I was not being pulled down with unnecessary weight, I began to lose weight and my figure became, let’s face it, smokin’. (That I dated a personal trainer for a few months helped!)
Then my body started to change when something began to grow inside me. Before any part of my body began to shows signs of pregnancy, my boobs inflated. The twins kept growing exponentially like a sea monkey submerged in water. If they continued increasing at that speed for the entire nine months I would have made Jenna Jameson look like an pre-pubescent teenager.
Post baby, those big guys swelled faster than any other part of my body. Shrinking to deflated balloons gripping on to my chest for support.
A good bra makes them look okay but I don’t have the patience for bra shopping when those suckers are probably going to fluctuate yet again. Until then, it’s a tank top with a built in shelf bra* that always works post operation, tight dark jeans and some high heels with a little peek-a-boo toe so my newly pedicured toes can get a little attention too. Now, if I just had a place to go other than a mommy and me class or to the dog run.
*There is a place in hell for the inventor of underwire brassieres. Those b*tches never fit right, always ride against my protruding ribs and tease me with the notion that i too could be supported.