I’ve been writing some fairly weighty stuff of late so I thought I’d get back to my roots and write about tits.
I’ve decided this summer that my cans would roam free. Previous summers they have been bound expertly in lacy balconettes in racy colours, but lately something bizarre has happened and I have sprouted a bra allergy.
I’m not metaphorically allergic to brassieres. I’m actually cropping up with bouts of itchy red lumps and the occasional round of hives that begin in my bra region. Precisely where my bra sits.
It’s not all bras. Just my sports bras and lacy ones. My un-sexy Genie bras, proudly worn by older ladies who have already given in to the comfort over style thing, still work a treat. In fact, I just lived in them day and night whilst climbing a farking freezing mountain, but when it comes to anything that I would ever be caught dead in…. I get an itch.
I don’t let the ladies swing in the wind everywhere I go, however, there is a revolution going on under my shirt that I thought I would share with you.
When I was in Thailand in September I saw this dress that I fell in love with….except it was backless. I swore off backless jobbies after the C cup to F cup to B cup to C cup three-year incident that was breastfeeding. My once proudly jutting bosom was now a pair of gently stuffed socks.
I was sure I would never be able to fully embrace these sad socks and would live a life of stuffing them into bras that reverted them to their glory….or a kind of soft, squishy version of.
Anyway, I tried this dress on twice. I got five separate opinions, two from the shop girls (who would obviously say the jug sitch was totes under control) and my friends outside (my boyfriend and my kids’ godparents.)
Everyone said it looked fine, boobs ahoy, but the one comment that actually cut through the voice in my head was my kids’ godfather. Semih the Turk.
Semih said, “Look, I have a gut, and your man has a gut, but do we care? No. We just own it. It’s not about what your boobs look like in the dress people will see, they’ll see the confidence you wear it with.”
Yep, it took a dude with a proud gut to help me see the light. I bought the dress home and was still secretly was unsure if I would wear it sans undergarment of some description.
Then the itchy bra scenario started and I realised it high time for a very stern word with myself.
No one gives a shit about my cans; unless they’re actually in their hands and then they should be feeling pretty lucky cos chances are I’m gonna put out.
My kids fed from them for two years, and they don’t even give much of a shit about them. They think they’re hilariously good fun, and in quiet good-mood, well-timed hormone fuelled moments, sometimes they are.
So there it is. Summer 2017, the season I declared time to lose the boulder holder when it suits, and give no shits about it.
I invite everyone to give it a crack because regardless of whether you have teeny fried eggs, a pair of crackers or National Geographic boobs, it’s a highly liberating manouver in summer to hit the refrigerator section of the supermarket swinging in the wind.