Having Big Boobs Isn't All It's Cracked Up to Be

I don't usually talk about such a personal issue that is (quite literally) close to my heart, but I feel a need to express myself with this rather ignored topic.

I know large bazongas are all the rage and are especially popular for ogling by those who possess XY chromosomes. I feel blessed and thank my lucky stars that I am in no dire need to head on over to my nearest cosmetic surgery center so I can have that extra coveted "va-va-voom" and "oomph" factor seen with Hugh Hefner's Playboy bunnies. I should also mention that big boobs provide an extra storage space within my bra for cradling my keys, my MP3 player and my cell phone when I go out for a jog.

But if I'm perfectly honest, having huge breasts can at times really, really suck.

My three main reasons are as follows:

Exercise

I own a fairly good sports bra and it does a great job giving me support (as it would be expected of bras). However, even the best Victoria's Secret sports bra faces its own limitations when put to test as I engage in vigorous physical activities.

Such as running. And jumping rope.

I honestly can't withstand five minutes of jump rope and not end up having red blotches form on my skin from all the friction and gravity that comes from exerting my body with such an exercise. To make matters worse, with every progressive hop I engage in, I am at risk of going one bounce too many and end up flashing the Creeper Codger who lives across the street from me.










Clothes

I like clothes-shopping. Being a woman, that is, after all, a pleasurable activity to partake in. However, thanks to what nature intended for me to have, I often face the inevitable ordeal that three-quarters of the restrictive blouses, dresses and shirts that I try on are simply not cut for someone like me. The way some tops strangle me, cutting off the blood circulation until my boobs turn purple, makes me wish (out of pure vanity) that I had a slightly less-massive chest. This is especially true with the "cute" shirts that I meet with continuous defeat in the fitting rooms.






When it comes to tops, my arch-nemesis is, without a doubt, shirts with buttons. Either I try on the shirt that is labeled my size and have the buttons stretched so tightly across the front so they look like I'm giving a deliberate peep-show between the exposed gaps...



...Or I try on a larger size in which the buttons close all the way but the rest of the shirt is big enough for me to go camping in.





Don't even get me started on finding the right bra. Much like tops, it seems like all the "cute" frilly bras that I gravitate towards are reserved for the ladies who don't over-compensate in the boobage department like I do. I try on the "cute" ones, the ones which have flimsy straps fashioned from shoelaces, and am often left resorting to buy the rather plain-Jane garments that have the sole function of keeping my chest intact instead of giving it a more alluring sex appeal.

I truly wonder what goes on in the minds of bra engineers when they make these vital aesthetic decisions.



Respect

If you were to bump into me in real life, you are probably more likely to see me out and about with glasses on my face. Lo and behold, I am a four-eyes.

Shocker. I know.

Years ago, a friend of mine, shocked at seeing me on the very rare moment in which I ditched my glasses for more aesthetically-pleasing contact lenses, commented that with my breasts, I gave off the impression that I looked like someone who couldn't tell the difference from her left hand to her right or knew the capital of Switzerland.

Which is absolutely false: it's Bern, dammit, and within their various cantons, the Swiss speak four different languages, such as Romansch. I knew that without the aid of Wikipedia.

I can't help thinking that my friend was right. On the days when I decide to wear my contact lenses and dress to the nine yards (or meters), there's always a little voice of doubt chiding me about how this wrong impression of me not being an intelligent woman is abetted by my top-heaviness. It also doesn't help that an unspoken consensus exists that there is a direct correlation between a woman's cup-size and her IQ points: the bigger they are, the dumber she is.



That being said, it should be apparent that my parents and the American educational system didn't raise a fool and the people who know me in real life know that I am indeed one smart cookie. I only wish that complete strangers, particularly the horny hooligans who wolf-whistle at me from their cars, realize this before making the incorrect assumption about me.

Nevertheless, I am quite happy that my chest is indeed mine and a healthy one to boot. It's easy to take things for granted, and good health is one of them.

Ladies, no matter what size they are, please take care of your girls. Make it a habit to check to see they are in good form and cancer-free every month.

Barb the French Bean

(If the Creeper Codger looks oddly familiar to you, that is because I recycled the same guy from this previous post. You're welcome.)