Just so you know, I love my breasts.
Reading Kerri Sackville’s post on bra shopping and the subsequent comments from readers who despaired of finding the perfect bra. People’s breasts were eith too big, too small, inflated, deflated.
To me, walking into a store like Bras ‘n’ things or Smitten Kitten, or the intimate apparel department of Myer and David Jones my idea of a wet dream. So many pretty bits of satin and lace hanging there, so many colours and designs, begging to be tried on.
I used to despair of finding the perfect bra when I was younger. I was a bit bigger and did not want to be fitted by ladies who were either rushed off their feet, or were work colleagues at Myer. In fact, it was only when I was pregnant that I saw a lady in a maternity store, who fitted me and told me my true measurements.
My breasts have shrunk with weight loss, but I’m not small. I’ve also learnt I can’t skimp on price, if I want quality support for my boobs. I feel I owe it to them and to myself to make sure they get the support and self-esteem boost of wearing pretty bras.
We have been through a lot together. They’ve been teased, nipped, bitten, suckled, expressed, blistered, been engorged and painful.
I’ve had bra straps pinged by teasing younger brothers. They’ve been squashed and prodded by nurses for mammograms and to get the hang of breastfeeding.
They also kept the kids nourished for the first six months of their lives and were a comfort to them during the night. There is nothing so sweet as a child’s face nuzzled into your bosom, and the warmth of their body against yours on a cold winter’s night.
They have drawn attention, both wanted and unwanted. It was strange and uncomfortable at first, as I was not really that well-equipped to deal with men’s eyes drawn to my chest. The discomfort soon gave way to feminist ire and has in my approach to 40, amusement, and yes secret flattery (which is a total disregard for my feminist principles).
My breasts have a couple of wrinkles, aren’t as full as they once were, but that means I can wear a fitted shirt without buttons popping out and hitting someone in the eye. They’re a bit scarred, but they’re part of me, they’re real, and they’re spectacular.
Of course the bras have to have matching knickers to complete the set, but the story of me and my knickers is another story…