"Hi. I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."
Hi,
Andrea!
You know, there really should be a support group. Both literally
and figuratively. And major bonus points if there were free vanilla lattes and donuts
at the meetings.
Oh, poor
you, you and your
normal-sized breasts sneer in your best Olivia Soprano voice. You think I'm lucky. You
think having triple D's must be the cat's meow. You think you would've totally ruled the school Senior year if not
for your average sweater set. But sista, as much as I want to shrug and say vive la difference (and then swear to
stop using the term "sista" cuz we all know I'm the whitest woman in
America), you're wrong. These puppies are an albatross.
Did they get me free drinks all through college? Certainly. Did
they increase my tips by 1000% when I did singing telegrams? You betcha. Have
men waxed rhapsodically about being trapped in their splendor? Um, I'm a lady.
And a lady never talks. (Translation: Hells
yeah.)
But honestly? Because I grew these goombas organically, shopping
is a nightmare.
I'm 5'2"-- unless I'm being weighed for something or setting
up an online dating profile, in which case I'm 5'3". Because clearly that
extra inch weighs 20 pounds. I'm kind of petite except for the giant U-Boats
protruding from my upper body (matched only by the hips that ate Chicago— and yes
people, it was delicious) so almost any shirt that isn't skin tight is far too
big everywhere else. I buy things that don't look low cut to me when I try them
on, but which proudly display my titanic titwillows to anyone taller than I,
which is pretty much everyone. And strapless or racerback bra required? You
might as well ask me to fly (and by the by, while I may be 89 kinds of dynamic,
aero ain’t one of 'em).
So today I found myself in a swim suit store in Austin, TX. I'm here on business and for God's sake, the
bathing suit selection for those of us with decadent dirigibles in Colorado is abysmal. It's as if
all department store buyers have gotten together and decided that we should
just stay home, lounging around in our giant titslingers and eating whatever
mystery thing it is that makes us tumescent, and kindly leave the swimming up to
the svelte. But I'm going to Cabo in two
weeks and Kauai not long after that and I'll be damned if those aren't public
bathing suit events, and despite what my Mother would prefer, I don't want to look like a member of the East German swim team. My current swim suit and faithful companion since Vegas
2011 has done its dead solid best to support me through the Great 2012 Weight
Gain of Happiness, but lately has begun to look a bit "MILFs Gone
Wild."
Clearly I'm not oblivious to the power that cleavage can afford, I
just don't want mothers shielding their trembling children's eyes as my flying buttresses and I go waddling pornographically past at the
pool. Nor am I a fan of the nearly inevitable wardrobe malfunction. I've begun
to imagine my bathing suit top has a Scottish brogue and is shouting "Damn it, Jim! I'm a bikini, not a feat
of structural engineering!"
The relentlessly perky salesgirl that helped me was named Candice.
Of course she was, and I have no
doubt that to friends and loved ones she's simply "Candy," with her
normal sized boobies, perfectly straight hair, and future Junior League
membership. I explained my dilemma and she set about pulling every swim suit in
the store that might provide the amount of support and coverage that, let's
say, two B-52 Bombers might need for a long weekend at the beach.
She checked on me in the dressing room every 32 seconds, each time actually pulling back the curtain and catching me in various unflattering wrestling postures, slightly out of breath
and wrangling my gargantuan girls into these bikini tops and skirted bottoms,
and calling me "girlfriend" through a blindingly white smile because
she likely couldn't remember my name.
And suddenly, there it was: The perfect swim suit. Seriously, the
only thing perkier than my tomatoes in this thing was Candy herself.
Admittedly, I had to consider my reflection very quickly before
Candy reappeared just in time to catch me in all my semi-naked and somewhat
sweaty glory, encouraging me to chub-rub it out to the 3-way mirror for
everyone to gaze in wonderment upon my fish-belly white, hail-damaged edifice.
But I think I may have actually found that elusive bathing costume that is
somehow flattering, sexy, age-appropriate and massively supportive. Seriously,
if this thing were any more supportive, it would pour me a glass of wine,
massage my feet, and ask me quite genuinely how my day was.
Clearly, I had to have it. And so $259 later, we all exited the
store, Candy in tow, wishing the 4 of us (me, my two flotation devices, and my
miracle of modern spandex) a fabulous trip to Cabo.
Now I'm back in my hotel room and I'm terrified to try the suit on
again to make sure I love it. Candy's not here to coo over how hot I look in it
and I'm wearing white socks, no make-up, and a creeping sense of failure. I'm
not ready for reality to come crashing back in and ruin this for me and my Everlasting
Gobstoppers of Joy.
I really need to get to a meeting.
"Hi, I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."
Hi,
girlfriend!
I need you, Candy. Wherever you are.
