Big Girls do Cry

The girls enjoy the open air. They like that fresh breeze that catches between the blouse and bra when there's a few buttons turned loose or an airy v-neck gaping. Summer is certainly upon us and I know the girls would like nothing more than to bask in those few gusts of blustery wind that should happen to get trapped beneath a breathable tee. 

Unfortunately, my two darling sweethearts are enduring an oppressively moist summer buried beneath layers upon layers of professional garb(age). 

My company holds dress code to the utmost degree of business standard. For me, this meant buying suits before leaving for Japan, as it stipulated in my contract that if I carried with me a 36D or above (sounds like some kind of weapon), I would be unable to find suitable clothing in Japan for my oh-so-busty chest.

Even in the states, finding a button-down blouse or dress shirt is difficult. I swim through the arms and have almost no shape to my torso, but still, that third or fourth button keeps a-poppin'. This means undershirts required. So, bra, undershirt, blouse. Count it, three layers in what was once a promising summer of endless tank tops and loose fitting shirts. 

Not only do the girls blister in a soggy, dank chamber of multi-layered domination, they are constantly "checked out"--and not in the most pleasant of ways.

My Shibucho, or regional director, pops over and visits every now and again. She has yet to make an appearance without commenting on my "inappropriate" professional wear.

Last week, she asked how I was doing. And then, in a tricky sort of way--kind of how you would imagine a child getting duped into abduction-- proceeded to tell me how I need to straighten my blouse to cover more of my neck. There aren't any more damn buttons, lady, and its sweltering, even with this dilapidated fan blowing chunks of dust and dead bugs into my face. 

There was nothing I could say in response to Shibucho's candid and extremely helpful fashion advice. It really broke me down for some reason. The girls were sweltering under such humid conditions and like anyone, constant heat makes you cranky. 

I cried, er should I say blubbered, for exactly 20 seconds in the bathroom stall. It was a loud burst of upset, but only for a brief moment. For some reason...maybe the heat, maybe the constant scrutiny of my chest, I just needed a quick cry. 

I guess sometimes constant attention of the girls makes them weary of even the subtle stares and glares, especially when they are concealed under a seemingly impenetrable shield of cotton. I could only convince myself to believe that big breasted employees were a novelty in Japan. And I was a force to be reckoned with. 

Unintended Peep Show

I am a gym junkie. I love going to the gym. It is just as much a part of my day as a bowel movement...although sometimes that happens more than once.


Anyway, part of my gym-time enjoyment is the amenities offered in the locker room. Fresh towels aplenty, aloe-scented deodorant, hair care I don't even know what to do with. Q-tips, oh the Q-tips! Needless to say, I make the most of the locker room and it's bountiful offerings.


However, I've noticed a common trend among the upstanding women members of my gym: they always look at my breasts. Now, I know that we all have lady lumps just the same, but I guess the sheer size and monstrosity of my boobs are enough to turn any head, even if it's of the same sex.


When I first joined the gym, I started sheepishly walking around the locker room, ducking into the shower quickly without showing anything more than my bare arms. But, just recently, perhaps because of a newly-acquired Hawaiian tan, I have been unleashing the goods to the masses of the women's locker room.


I get quick peeps and then a rapid turn-of-the-head as if they weren't looking at all. I get stares that elongate from across the room--and without my glasses on, it's hard to tell just how many freckles they've noticed. I get mirror glances from ladies who are doing their make-up and decide to size me up by my reflection.


These kind of voyeuristic tendencies express two things to me:


First, I would like to pay homage to the first noticeable start of voyeurism in the 17th century when the photographic camera came about as well as skyscrapers and hot air balloons. Sound like nonsense or a bad Pixar movie? But, think about it. Vantage points changed and then we finally had a way of capturing what we were so curious about in the first place: other people's lives. What we do when no one else is looking--who we are when there's no one to see us. It fascinates us, enlivens a certain imaginative spirit through mystery of the visible unknown.


I am reminded of an Impressionist series called The Bathers by Edgar Degas. He capitalized on this understanding of voyeurism and used it to express women in naturally intimate settings such taking a bath. At the time, these paintings were contraband and counterculture in the eyes of a society that had known no art beyond religious pieces or those sanctioned by leaders in society. Degas brought mystery, and in turn, a revived element of life into women that were once only showed in formal portraiture.


The next feeling I got from thinking all eyes were on my melons is that women are bitches. They love to stare you down and compare themselves to you.


I guess I too am culpable of this, but then again, not many people have boobs that can compete with mine. In yo face, wrinkle tits!

Pismo Beach Disaster Relief

The title of this post pays homage to one of my favorite coming-of-age high school movies, Clueless. In the movie, Cher chairs a committee for the Pismo Beach Disaster Relief where she gets all her (rich) friends to donate goodies to aid recovery from this natural disaster. 

This is not the point of the post. The point is that I had the opportunity to visit Pismo Beach for a few days in January  and had a disaster of my own. I forgot my swim suit. You're thinking, "It's January, too cold for bathing suits". Alas, it was a glowing 70 degrees and sunny for the two days I was there and all I wanted was to take the twins out on a beach-side stroll, show them off in my best halter and get my tan on. 

Of course, being without swimsuit leaves me with the daunting task of trying to find one for the time being. Finding a suit for a big-breasted girl like me is like trying to find a milk carton kid after they've been missing for nearly 20 years. No body, no perp, but someone keeps on looking. 

I luck out in a surf shop that has a few cute halters in a L. That scarlet letter L. I cringe at the thought of feeling too big to even be branded an L. But, there I was, topless in the dressing room, staring down the few final selections I'd made. 

One by one, they were eliminated. Boob coming out the sides, toppling out the top, sneaking down below. 

I looked myself in the mirror, sloughed off the disappointment and then realized: If this is what The Powers that Be wanted to have happen, then they, along with the other innocent bystanders at the beach that day, would be forced to deal with the consequences. 

I took myself to a far corner of Pismo Beach and let those rays burn my nipples to a tasty crisp.

Please Pass the Party Favors

The Christmas season is ironic to me. 

How we have tendencies to gain the most weight than any other time of year, yet at the same time need to look our best for those seasonal soirees. A time to reconnect with our families; however, in the process, realize their dysfunction. The more gifts we buy, the more we grapple with how little money we really have to spend. But, what's Christmas without presents? How would I know...

The biggest irony of all seems to lie on my chest. Two luscious lipids just waiting to adorn themselves in the holiday fashion's finest. And within this refined showcase of classical skimpiness, therein rests the irony of a big breasted girl with an invite to a Robert Goulet themed Christmas party. 

I took the twins tied in a brown and off-white patterned wrap dress. Amazingly, I still fit in the thing; it's lasted me since sophomore year when I first donned it at the Homecoming dance in Dallas. Even then, I had to pin the chest together so it wouldn't be horribly offensive. 

Good news! We were so early for the party, we got to meet the hosts parents. My biggest fear thereafter was that this little pin, weaved strategically through the cloth and sealed with a prayer, would pop off into the sweet old mother's eye and blind her--having no clue as to where this deadly flying object came from.

Of course, the boobs would be to blame. If I had a dress that fit them as well as the rest of my body (which is of moderate curvaceous proportions), maybe there was no need to wear something low cut? Maybe I should have just dressed in theme and worn a moustache, turtleneck and blazer? The androgyny might blind-side them, but certainly not permanently disable their vision. 

I think the upstanding, Goulet-loving guests at this party enjoyed having their lives endangered at the chance of seeing some fleshy chest peer out of an unassuming wrap dress. I know I enjoyed the thrill of it all, and although deeply intoxicated by the end of the evening, managed to keep the pin there until I willingly took off the dress that has been worn on dates since I was 16. A whole lot of memories. A whole lot. 

Teaching a man a lesson he will never learn

Daniel: "I've never told you this before, but you have terrible posture."

Me: "Do I?"

Daniel: "Yes, your shoulders and neck seem to slouch forward. You have to stand up straight like this." (Proceeds to demonstrate)

...Silence...

end of conversation.

Above, a snippet into the life of a big breasted girl, er, should I say woman. 

Judging by the size of my massive mammaries,  it would be a seemingly difficult task to hold myself fully upright all the time. Given the little I know of physics, gravity and the like, when one portion of matter is heavier than the other, the body tends to overcompensate by using a technical term I like to call "slouching".

Even dating back to grade school, the crux of my big breasted existence rested heavily on my shoulders (pun definitely intended). Do I put them above or below the table when sitting at lunch? If above, I run the risk of some serious staining and potentially finding half-eaten morsels tucked in my cleavage for an unexpected late-afternoon snack. If below, I might as well forget about utensils and table manners I'm so close to the plate. 

Pristine posture also warrants extreme trampiness (word coined by yours truly). When proceeding to follow advice from the aforementioned Daniel, my bust looks so big I could get cat calls wearing a sweatshirt. Standing completely erect with a burdening front bundle is like trying to defy the very nature of gravity (unless you're wearing a nursing bra) by parading your chest around as if it doesn't want to just rest kindly in the cradle of a full support bra a little lower to the ground than expected. Of course, the importance of showing off the goodies and getting them out for some fresh air is understood, but that's certainly asking for more than a few hollers from my male fans. 

So, what do I say to Daniel? Nothing. How can I summarize a buxom woman's plight in a sentence or sentiment of any kind that will really make a man understand the toppling twins' dilemma with the height of proper posture. Ah, such is life and the courage we find in ourselves to go through it, back pains and all. 

Couldn't Buy a Dress in London

Walking dreamily through Greenwich village, I peer into the window of a promising boutique. Handmade designer dresses line the rack in an assortment of chic shades. The grey and black frocks might fit me, so I try them on.

The fitting room is just a closet with a space heater, and as I struggle to pull the wool dresses over my ample chest, I begin to perspire. Just a bit. The smallest size fits everywhere...but my boobs. The medium size fits even better everywhere...but my boobs. Finally, the large size basically fits...but my boobs are still far too large in the dress. They're squashed into a very unsightly uniboob. In my typically American (apparently) directness, I tell the kind shopgirl that my boobs are too big for her cute dress, apologize, and am on my way. She actually balked!

"A lady came in here earlier with your 'problem'. I wish I had that 'problem'."

With great power comes great responsibility. That's what I told her as I turned to face the chilly London night air.

D through G Debut

This is a blog for women who have really, really big boobs. We're normal-sized everywhere else, but we have really, really big boobs.