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Rant of the big-boobed
Dec. 8th, 2010 12:17 amSo, I've put on some weight over the past year - since my fat all goes to my stomach and boobs, it meant that I suddenly outgrew all my E-cup bras. I just put up with it for a while, but then it got to point where the underwire in every. Single. Bra. I. Own snapped all within a few days of each other. All of a sudden I am left totally without support in a cold world that does not look kindly on giant knockers swinging in the wind. Bra-shopping time for Erin!
Up until now I have bought all my bras (and indeed the majority of my wardrobe) at Target. So off to Target I go in search of F-cup bras. My search proves fruitless even though I am sure I have seen them there before. Turns out they only stock up to E-cups, the very size I have just outgrown. Oh dear, says I. So I proceed to hit every single department store and specialty shop in this giant, formerly-the-biggest-mall-in-the-Southern-Hemisphere mall. I discover that nobody sells higher than an E-cup. Oh fuckity-fuck, says I.
I consider purchasing via the internet, but bras are tricky things - you can be totally different sizes in different styles and brands - and the thought of buying without trying doesn't appeal, since I'd probably end up with the wrong fit and then have to go through the hassle of sending it back and trying to get a replacement. Plus the internet prices scared me - I'm a Target shopper. I've never spent more than $50 on a bra.
Then my mother hears about a place that specializes in giant cup-sizes, the delightfully and/or condescendingly named 'More Than A Handful'. Unfortunately it's in Sydney, so we have to schlep all the way into the city (over an hour's drive with good traffic - and it wasn't good traffic) for what should be a simple purchase. But lo and behold, I discover perfect bras for me. I then discover said bras are $155 each. Technically I need to stock up new bras, but at that price there's no way I can. So I fork over $310 for two bras and go home feeling extremely pissed off that just because I was 'lucky' enough to be blessed with naturally huge boobs that morph into mutant cajungas of death when I put on weight, means I have to make a three-hour round trip and spend hundreds of dollars I don't have, doing something that members of the itty bitty commitee can do in ten minutes for 30 bucks.
In conclusion, I hate my boobs, and the next time some implant-wanting moron tells me how lucky I am to have big tits, I am going to ram them down her fucking throat.
God, that felt good to get out.
Up until now I have bought all my bras (and indeed the majority of my wardrobe) at Target. So off to Target I go in search of F-cup bras. My search proves fruitless even though I am sure I have seen them there before. Turns out they only stock up to E-cups, the very size I have just outgrown. Oh dear, says I. So I proceed to hit every single department store and specialty shop in this giant, formerly-the-biggest-mall-in-the-Southern-Hemisphere mall. I discover that nobody sells higher than an E-cup. Oh fuckity-fuck, says I.
I consider purchasing via the internet, but bras are tricky things - you can be totally different sizes in different styles and brands - and the thought of buying without trying doesn't appeal, since I'd probably end up with the wrong fit and then have to go through the hassle of sending it back and trying to get a replacement. Plus the internet prices scared me - I'm a Target shopper. I've never spent more than $50 on a bra.
Then my mother hears about a place that specializes in giant cup-sizes, the delightfully and/or condescendingly named 'More Than A Handful'. Unfortunately it's in Sydney, so we have to schlep all the way into the city (over an hour's drive with good traffic - and it wasn't good traffic) for what should be a simple purchase. But lo and behold, I discover perfect bras for me. I then discover said bras are $155 each. Technically I need to stock up new bras, but at that price there's no way I can. So I fork over $310 for two bras and go home feeling extremely pissed off that just because I was 'lucky' enough to be blessed with naturally huge boobs that morph into mutant cajungas of death when I put on weight, means I have to make a three-hour round trip and spend hundreds of dollars I don't have, doing something that members of the itty bitty commitee can do in ten minutes for 30 bucks.
In conclusion, I hate my boobs, and the next time some implant-wanting moron tells me how lucky I am to have big tits, I am going to ram them down her fucking throat.
God, that felt good to get out.
