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.