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21 more things = 42

The last post was the 21 things I KNOW at 42. At the end I said I'd consider writing 21 more things to make it 42 in total & then ...

Wednesday

Wireless: Beyond Your Internet Woes


Somewhere about the age of 11 my nubbins began to slooooooooowly take form. My other girlfriends from school were already in training bras while I still only required an undershirt with the requisite white or pink bow in the center. I thought those things would NEVER grow, & the process of them growing was less than positive for me. Puberty was hellatious. It only takes your cackling aunts to push in your nubbins 1 time or to raise your summer dress up checking for the goings on “down there” for it all to be an experience you wished you could time travel right on past.

There were no real large breasts around me and the slow to grow stage lasted so long that I assumed I'd get overlooked in the Lady Lumps department. I didn't sneak to buy any creams to rub where my mounds were supposed to be or to try to do any ridiculous bust building exercises to spark a growth spurt. All I wanted out of the final result was for boys others to be able to distinguish me from the little boys I was still comfortable playing with. I was in my opinion a logically thinking person. I had assessed the chesticles of the women in my family & surmised that Barbie's figure wasn't gon' be what I was working with. I wasn't asking for much.

When the girls finally came in I was a strong A-cup. For what it's worth, the time it took to get those jokers, I was cool widdit. I wasn't aspiring to be a Hooter's girl or win any wet t-shirt contests so it was all good. Well...mostly. I mean what girl doesn't want a more substantial rack? Put me in a contest w/some lamb & the lamb would have definitely won. Fine. But I accepted them eventually. When I got up to a B-cup I felt the Gawds had smiled down on me & I settled in with my contenment. So much so that I didn't notice when my late bloomer thing was going on. Again, I wasn't greedy. Then 1 summer I traveled south with a friend & stayed at my aunt's house overnight. As I dressed the next morning she was wondering what type of clown car squeezing act I was trying to pull off stuffing myself into that B-cup bra. No one around me was larger than a B so that was what it was gon' be. The End. Apparently I skipped some chapters; like the 1 where I had another growth spurt & busted up into a C. Looking around, no one in my family was really doing anything more than that so that had to be the pinnacle.

So...I continued to live. My weight stays within a 5-7 lb range, whether on the high end or low end. Exercise really just serves to tone me up, not as a weight loss tool. I'm OK with that. As far as I know...I was in a good holding pattern. I invested in some pretty colored brassieres with the proper padding against chilled nips & the right-sized C for my new C's. I wilded out & went well beyond the week's worth of bras they say women are supposed to have. I have 'em for different necklines on my shirts, racer-back straps, convertible this that & the other, halter bras, sports bras, clear straps, etc.... I went hard in the fluthamuckin paint. I was able to hang out with my fuller friends with confidence because logic was on my side. A little lightweight, unscientific equation brought me solidly to my conclusion. Petite woman+Small back+Little lineage=enhhhh.

Well, like we often do, I discounted the things I couldn't see. That was then. So, what had happened was...for the last week specifically I've been in GREAT pain. Pain like almost mad at everybody pain. Pain like waking up & saying, “WHATDAHELL?!?” Pain like, “WHOWHATWHENWHEREHOW & WHY?” I would put my beautiful C-cup bras on & HURT. I would take my beautiful C-cup bras off & HURT. Taking them off hurt almost more than wearing them because wearing them still gave supported bruising. With them off I had bruising with no support. For my arm to come in contact with the chesticles on the side HURT. To lay down to go to sleep HURT. Turning over to get off of them HURT. Sitting. Standing. Laying. Talking. Blinking. Thinking. HURT. My rational mind said, this only hurts in the arc where the underwire is so it's gotta be the wire, and immediately switched into solution mode. 1st stop: measuring.

Off to Nordstroms I went. When you think of measuring 1's Lady Lumps, Nordstroms often comes up if you don't know a corset shop. I casually went in to the dressing room, removed my shirt calmly & then watched the woman's face contort. “My goodness you're small.” That's what she said about my back. Then she got to the reason why I was there & her face contorted some more. “Hunh...you're a D, Hon.” STRONG SIDE EYE!! WhatchutalkinboutWillis?!? I even explained to the woman, “Ma'am, I come from small people. That doesn't make any sense.” Once I got over the shock of it, cuz the damn things still look like the same ones I've had for at least 5 years, I was able to refocus on the purpose. “I don't wish to see another underwire EVER AGAIN in life. Whatchu got?” The woman reminded me a bit of Mrs. Garrett from The Facts of Life. She raced off to go & fetch me some options & returned with the end of any prospective joy I could have derived from this occasion.

See...she came back into the dressing room with 4 wireless options. There in her hand was part of my new future: I have stepped into a new age of adult womanhood.

It's the stage that's painted in nude, rose, white & black. It comes in funereal lace & drab design. It's wide straps & full everything. It's the anti-sexy. I literally wanted to cry. Instead, I texted my older sister. & I still wanted to cry.

In the end, Mrs. Garrett brought me about 8 options, including a sports bra that wouldn't sustain any sporting activity but worked well as regular support. We weeded through those didn't work to get to 2 real options. Then I came in contact with a phenomenon I'd heard about but never had to consider. As a woman who CONSTANTLY discounted the truth of my bosom, I assumed I'd always have the luxury of being able to pick up a Gilligan O'Malley from Tar-zhay & K.I.M., I was now face to face with the price tag of my new status. After turning down the black lace, I settled on 1 rose yawn, & 1 nude whose complexion is this? & went to go settle up at the register. Two bras. ONE HUNNID SIX DOLLARS. Le sigh... The bright side is that I'm sure the Innawebs will be my salvation. The emergency from being in such great pain made me HAVE TO go & purchase rescue garments imeejetly! & as I prepare to go & remove 26 bras from my drawer to be replaced with TWO for now, I urge all of you to go & get measured. What I learned from recounting my story to my mother is that my great grandmother was heavy chested. Of the women in my family, my mother said I had to see my cousin twice removed & in another city who has the same family curse blessing trait. We both drink from the same full cup.

Don't make the same mistake I made & assume you look just like the people who are often on your right or left. Genes run deeper than stacking the full spelling of DNA vertically; you never know where this stuff will creep up from. Stay on top of your breast wellness. Pay attention the signs, do regular self-exams, get mammograms if you are of age or family circumstance, & get measured every 2 years. Do NOT find yourself Failing at life due to too small bras.

Guess I got new Tatas for my birthday. & as my girlfriend said...people pay money for those. (Though I can't figure out why.)

Watch me move.

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