February 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
This is the conclusion of Bras: Optional and Juggs McGee. The past two weeks had been filled with topical distractions, such and canceling Valentines day (you’re welcome) and watching the little Russian girl who falls (I hope the best for her family). I apologize in advance for the length of this post, I just couldn’t drag it out one more week.
Anyway… back to my real assets, and other boob related injuries.
During the height of the Juggs McGee scandal (it wasn’t really a scandal, but wouldn’t that be a good name for one?), I began to notice my large bosom hindering more than just my social integrity. I was dancing almost 20 hours per week with an underwire bra (with the straps held together with a safety pin) underneath a sports bra or a leotard with the straps equally tight. I had to hold those suckers in.
It was my sophomore year of high school when my left shoulder started to feel the pressure of carrying the weight of my knockers. I couldn’t lift my arm above my shoulder. My parents took me to a specialist on a hot tip that it was a pinched nerve. The tests came back inconclusive to the pinched nerve theory, and it was becoming quite clear that the consequences of my heavy breasts would more than just a pain in the neck. But for now, as an otherwise healthy 16 year old, I continued to do my thing.
For three years I thought I was just “sleeping wrong” until my double duty bra binding came back to bite me once again. I was on the Michigan State Dance Team, it was the summer before our regular season, I was living at home with my parents (30 miles away) and going into school every day for practice. One other girl on the team had about the same sized juggs as me, but for some reason she didn’t have to wear two bras, just one really good sports bra. I thought she was crazy, especially because running was part of our training.
Now for two very large obvious reasons, I was never a runner. So running was very new and horrible for me. I wanted three bras on running days. With my boobs strapped in so tight they were practically popping out at my chin, I ran. One day after practice I was driving home. It was only about a 30 minute drive, it was summer, I had the music blasting with the windows down. Now, I’m a neck cracker. Before you judge, consider the weight placed upon my shoulders by my boobs. While driving I cracked my neck and it stuck that way, on the highway going 75mph. My face was looking out the passenger window as my eyes craned to see the road. I just needed to make it home. I was three exits away (and then a whole shitload of country roads cause my parents live in the middle of no where).
When I pulled into the driveway I just yelled. My dad came running and picked me up, brought me into the house, and laid me out on the floor. It felt like my muscles were fused. The best course of action they could come up with was to drive me back to MSU to see an athletic trainer. Great. Couldn’t have thought of a solution in our own county?
My mom drove 30 miles to the school. I bet she was glad my head was cranked to the passenger side or I would have been staring at her judging her driving skills for 30 mins. My head was stuck to one side. I couldn’t move for almost an hour and a half. Once we saw the trainer, they applied heat and massaged me back to mobility. But this wasn’t a sports injury, this was a boob injury.
Another girl on the Dance Team told me she had a reduction. I was starry eyed. My dream. She told me all the gory details about the anchor scarring, the breast feeding question, and how if I was still on my parent’s insurance, it could pay for the surgery. I was! My folks were totally against it. My mom asked, “what if you regret it?” I assured her hand picking my perfect cup size would not be laced with regret. They shipped me off to Boston to complete my undergraduate with a “no, but not never” answer.
On the east coast my life was different. I was running far less. I stopped dancing, and despite having a job as a part time towel distributer at a corporate gym, I gained 10 pounds. Once spring broke, I needed to do something about my ponch, so I got to dancing again. I took a ballet and jazz classes at the Boston Conservatory, and some how ended up teaching a regular hip hop class at a local gym. This hip hop class (because I’m the whitest girl to ever hippity hop) was canceled for lack of enrollment, but I gained a few other classes at the gym because my killer ab routine. Shortly after I became a gym rat teaching 10 classes a week. I wanted to be a cinematographer at this moment in my life and that meant not being a wimp. One of the trainers set up a program for me to strengthen my camera shoulder. Soon I was back to the phantom “pinched nerve” and went to the clinic to see what the hell was wrong. Tendonitis. In my shooting shoulder.
Once I graduated and moved to LA getting regular gigs as a Camera Assistant and Operator, my shoulder got worse. I was 24 years young with chronic pain, still on my parents insurance. I couldn’t sleep through the night (because of the pain not because I felt like a failure or less of an adult for still being on my parent’s health insurance). With my mother on the other side of the country, I started shopping for a surgeon.
Of course all the surgeons who are good for anything are in Beverly Hills, a place far fancier than me which I am terrified of. Trying to find my way to one consultation on Rodeo Drive, I stopped into a boutique to ask for directions, but was turned away because I was wearing chuck taylors. I ended up finding a surgeon in Bev Hills I liked and her parking attendant only charged me 8 bucks during my visits because he knew I couldn’t pay the $25. I basically told my mom this is what was how it was going to be and all she had to do was provide me with the insurance. I told her she didn’t have to come take care of me during recovery because I just plain didn’t want to hear her disapproval for the whole ordeal.
Upon waking up from surgery I immediately felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. A lot of people who get breast reductions describe it like that. I felt like for the first time, I could sit up straight. The tissue was still swollen and I had drainage tubes coming out of me, so I wouldn’t be able to tell the real size of my new bosom for another couple of weeks. I was supposed to go home that night, but they kept me under for over 4 hours so I had to stay the night. I didn’t care. I felt great.
I got my tubes out a week later and my surgeon told me the treacherous tale of the 4 hour de-boobing process. Apparently, my breast tissue was so thick it broke the needle when they were first beginning (she didn’t really elaborate on this, so I don’t know exactly what it means). Consequently she took out as much tissue as she would normally if she was reducing the size by 2 1/2 cup sizes (I was going from DD to C). This was a little more than what we had talked about before the surgery.
If you ever get a reduction, they make you sign a bunch of forms saying that you won’t sue them if they don’t come out exactly like you wanted. Think about it, you are laying on the table, they cut your nipples off and open you up, once they sew you back together you are all swollen. They can’t tell. They can sit you up, and see how they fall, but it’s not the same. This is why my surgery took 4 hours. She wanted to make sure to curb my expectations incase they didn’t turn out to be the perfect Cs I wished for. My breast tissue was abnormally dense. I honestly didn’t know. No one could have known until they cut me open. But the tale doesn’t end here.
Later back at my house watching Six Feet Under (my recovery series) relaxing on the last of my narcotics, I felt tension on my left boob. Then it looked a little bit bigger. Then a lot bigger.
I rushed out of my room to my roommate (I was living with 3 dudes at the time), “does this boob look bigger than the other one?” He nodded, stunned at the question. I grabbed frozen peas out of the freezer and called my doctor. She asked me if I had a ride to the hospital and my roommate obliged. On the way I called my best girlfriend to come meet me so my dude roommate could be relieved. I was going back into surgery with a hematoma on my left breast. The people in the emergency room joked, “This is the opposite of what you want them to do, huh?” It was not funny. Not at the time.
6 months of no underwire, I finally went to the dreaded Vicky S. to get sized. I had not been given the perfect Cs I had hoped for. I was still a D cup. At first I was upset, I would still have to wear a bra with just about everything. I would still be Juggs McGee. I would still have big boobs. However, I could fit into off the rack clothes, run with a single sports bra (one with thin straps!), and live without chronic pain in my neck.
At first I had gotten the surgery for almost 63% vanity. But now, who cares about vanity, I can sit up straight! It used to be taking off my bra was the best part of my day. Now I am far less consumed with what my boobs are doing. They feel light, and still look pretty great so I have zero complaints. I will always have the occasional shoulder pain as a reminder, but the scars have faded so much, I can barely tell I was once a rag doll.
After my full recovery, I had to take a desk job. Partly because I had been advised to let the shoulder heal, but also because I couldn’t get insured.
Two years later, I met Mister Red and was upfront about my juggs. Before we got hot and heavy, I said, “Hey I had a breast reduction, there are some scars, so… if you aren’t cool with that, sorry.” He was cool with it.
February 19, 2014 § 1 Comment
Death Wishes Disguised as Sports, or more commonly known as the Winter Olympics, have consumed most of the last two weeks for me.I literally can’t take my eyes off them. It’s been interrupting my sleep schedule. Why is all the good stuff on at 10 pm? Ain’t nobody got time for that. What is my life that I’m sitting there bleary eyed waiting for the final heat of the luge?
I can’t stop, I won’t stop– what are the kids are saying these days? Oh… #sorrynotsorry. I’m sorry I am not more sorry about staying up past 11pm on a school night to see if some speed skater will fall and knock the rest of the contenders out like bowling pins. Obviously, I hope everyone stays on their skates/skis/boards/sleds, but if we were honest, the high probability of a total wipeout is what makes these games so entertaining in the first place. That and the speed of everything. Ice is terrible for driving automobiles, but if I really needed to get anywhere fast in the tundra, I’m hopping a bobsled (if Bob doesn’t mind).
Growing up in Michigan, I’m no stranger to snowy conditions, but surely estranged from my toe pick past. After eight years in sunny southern California, I haven’t even seen live snow in 3 years. I’m pretty much oblivious that there is winter, and that it’s actually snowing somewhere. Again, sorry, not sorry. This is probably my main fascination with these games. To my it’s unfathomable people voluntarily spend most of their time in this climate. Who are these masochists? Most winter athletes have been in the emergency room the week before (or even day of) their event. People have broken limbs and been in comas just weeks before competing. If you are in a coma, don’t go back to do the thing that put you in a coma. It’s like an unspoken coma rule. The arenas for these events make even regular things (like walking or blinking) 10 times more dangerous.
When I think of a big oval shaped slab of ice, I think of a Canadian doormat. These sports are played out on giant Canadian doormats, larger than life snow cones, and an oversized ice luge shot thing you see at frat parties or your out of control neighbor unveils after the sun goes down at his daughter’s graduation party. I’ll admit, I was not 21 when I had my first shot on an ice luge (which is, by the way, the most unflattering manner to consume alcohol). Everything is faster on ice, even Jagermeister. Basically, these thrill seekers aren’t fans of their lives, and they could care less about their knees. However, I’ve got other thoughts about these dances with death.
Hockey: The only thing that I will accept as a slightly rational winter sport is hockey. There’s checking, slapping, hat tricks, just the lingo is exciting. These dudes wear their insanity on their sleeve. No one is hiding the effed up grill. Lose a tooth? Who cares? This is hockey. It’s high speed, the rules are pretty cut and dry, the team objective blatant. Hockey players might just have anger issues and not death wishes.
Downhill Skiing: These are the people with all the letters going to God. One slip on the mountain and it’ll split your head open. We all gasped when that chick’s helmet broke. The very thing protecting her head couldn’t hold up to the gforce. Or how about how the first 8 female contenders couldn’t even make it down the mountain without biting it. What’s with the skier who’s obsessed with cheetahs and how come that one American chic was bitterly crying when she got bronze? Aren’t you lucky to be walking, let alone skiing, after 2 torn acls?
Snowboarding: These dudes in their baggy pants and their loud music are pretty much making up random shit to do at this point. Snowboarding Cross? What the hell? Racing on snowboards? This is a sport in the Olympics and woman couldn’t ski jump til this year? Snowborders are that ADHD case in 3rd grade who’s one candy bar away from throwing a brick at someone as a joke. Why do they all dog pile each other? Didn’t that Slopestyle kid say he ate candy and pizza the night before he won gold and winged it down the mountain? He sounds more like a ninja turtle than an athlete.
Slopestyle: It’s like skiing meets figure skating without all the pretty stuff in between and jumping basketball courts in the meantime.
Cross Country: NBC typically has these events on during the day because the excitement level is at a minimum. However, I’m not exactly sure what event it was, some ski jumping combo, but the way these dude were waddling uphill on their trek to the finish line (which is, like, 8k) was hysterical. I couldn’t stop giggling. It got me every time. It was like watching toddlers try to run in their father’s shoes. Also, holy upper body endurance. Nordictrack is no joke. And then they all collapse at the finish line from exhaustion. No dog piles of joy in this event, just men writhing around on the snow in unitards.
Speed Skating: Do you think skaters hold gigantic grudges to people who wipe out and take out half the contenders? What happens when the skaters have to skate the other direction around the track? Is it like dizzy bat race? Their uniforms are the most alien of all. Speed skaters look like thighs with glasses.
Skeleton: It’s freaking called the Skeleton because they might not be able to find all of yours if you don’t make it to the bottom. You go down head first (head first!) at 100mph on a freaking sled. The Luge is practically first class travel comparatively.
Curling: Curling is winter for bowling. No one knows why it’s players are still considered athletes. Are we going to call this one a hobbie already? These curlers are one beer away from an Elks Club tourney.
Figure Skating: It’s the only event on its period. Year after year, so much emotion, lots of scandal, and the occasional knee bashing. Ice dancing has little danger as it stands next to it’s triple axeling sisters of skating. It’s kind of a joke. I got bored. I didn’t miss my bedtime that night. It’s just glorified Dancing with the Stars except without the tinsel of Hollywood. However, Michigan is apparently the mecca of Ice Dancing. They are probably sorry they aren’t sorry. Got to root for my home state and it’s dancing queens.
Bobsled: Have you seen these men? Huge lean linebackers drag race down ice. If you are going to nudge anyone on Tinder go for the bobsled team.
Russians have been good hosts. Everyone pretty much forgot they couldn’t flush their bathroom tissue halfway though the opening ceremony. I personally was biting my teeth. How were they going to depict Stalin? Are they going to drop that little girl to make an example? There were a lot of questions, but I thought it was pretty amazing they got the ballet involved and suspended set pieces as big as buildings. Too bad all anyone could talk about was that ring that didn’t open in the beginning.
That ring isn’t the only thing ruffling the fur lined hoods of our Olympians. Sochi weather is a joke. There is more winter in Massachusetts’ little toe. Sean White ain’t having it. His tight pants were all bunched about the Russian facilities. I say a true champion can succeed in any condition. They might not set world records, but they will rise to the challenges. Coma boy didn’t back down. Also these sports mean nothing without the unpredictable weather. It’s not like we can call up God and tell her to lay fresh powder on the mountain 10 mins before the event starts. I mean, it’s a mountain, it’s pretty amazing it’s making its own climare to begin with.
None the less, the US has earned some solid bronze metals in these games. And I look forward to seeing how Putin is going to punish his hockey team and the STD statistics of the Olympic Village. Even Bob Costas with his pirate eye said that they were all young, single, and in the best shape of their lives. Maybe that’s how he got the eye infection? EW!?!!?! Why would I say that?!?!?! #sorrynotsorry
February 12, 2014 § 1 Comment
I’m officially canceling Valentine’s Day. No need to half-ass the agonizing details of a romantic evening for two, save that Pintrest board for the nearest birthday and/or anniversary. You are off the hook this year. Don’t worry about trying to concur the hostess at that pricey restaurant, she wasn’t going to do you that favor anyway. In fact the only reservation you were lucky enough to get was a table by the bathrooms at 10pm. And said bitchy hostess made sure to let you know, you were lucky to get even that. You should be more grateful, you stupid procrastinator.
Stop trying to go to places fancier than you to prove devotion to the person you’ve already pledged your devotion to. Don’t buy an unwarranted gift for someone who did nothing special lately. Stop spending money to show emotion. This holiday is ridiculous. Every year it makes my head spin. Why to we do this?! Why?! Valentines are litter bugs!
I love my man more today than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow. I don’t need a day in February to flaunt it. Every year we look at each other and shrug, “what are we doing for Valentine’s day? Why would we be doing anything we wouldn’t normally do?” Neither one of us knows the protocol. It’s kind of awesome because no one will get unreasonably upset when outrageously romantic gestures come out subpar. Flat out, I don’t care.
It’s not because of my lack of enthusiasm, the timing is off. This weekend is not a convenient time in our lives or bank accounts to have an impromptu love trip to Costa Rica. Actually, who has the bank account or time for impromptu central american love voyages anyway? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Our first thought was to avoid the crowds. Valentine’s day on a friday? Do yourself a favor. Don’t leave your house all weekend. It’s going to be a hormonal outrage out there. Loving, fighting, pouting, dead-eyed couples going through the motions, and a lot of single drunkenness followed by bad decisions. Unless you’re into that. In that case, enjoy. Mister Red suggested we curl up at home by the fire to watch the entire second season of House of Cards on Netflix (comes out on Friday, obviously we weren’t the only ones who were going to stay in, Netflix is my kind of media guru). Then work was offered. Offered to both of us. At opposite times. Pretty much the next night we had off together was February 18th.
I am not going to celebrate a holiday that society is shoving down my throat four days late. Some people said they were going to celebrate early, like on Tuesday. What? It’s not a birthday. It’s not Christmas. It’s a Hallmark holiday. Send an ecard and call it a wash. Either it works out or it doesn’t, but don’t be trying to fit a round peg in a heart shaped hole. If you can’t make it happen on the day let that ship sail. Or send an ecard. Possibly flowers if you are an overachiever.
Maybe what we should really consider doing instead of throwing money away on heart shaped boxes of cheap chocolates or balloons shaped like lips is give something your loved one they will really appreciate. Like laundry. Or grocery shopping. Or wash the car. Or the carpets. Or the dog. Whatever shitty chore they always do without complaint, do it for them on the 14th and leave them a love note.
We should all leave more love notes around. In packed lunches, on the bathroom door, means a lot more than some ecard you fwd them from your facebook newsfeed. Furthermore I don’t think Valentines day love should strictly be reserved for romantic relationships. All you single people pack up the pity party and show some love to someone you truly appreciate. A roommate, family member, dear friend, a bunny.
Why isn’t there more of an anti-Valentines Day movement. Surely couples are over it, singles cry over it, kindergartners stress over it (Valentines is not only a hard word to say when you are five but harder to spell and write). This holiday has been blown out of proportion for far too long. It is unrealistic to think your life will magically rise to romantic comedy caliber for 24 hours. After you’ve been wooed, who’s got time for this type of charade? Cupid is an alcoholic baby with terrible archery skills. There is no good judgement there. But if you do get the chance, have some hot sex. That’s about all this holiday is good for. I won’t be canceling that.
February 5, 2014 § 2 Comments
The first dude to ever cop a feel didn’t have any trouble with the front closure, and for some strange reason I was relieved. My bosom was finally being appreciated. I learned I enjoyed having them touched. Finally, useful for something. A handful. Actually, two handfuls. I still hadn’t compared naked tits to anyone else I knew, I didn’t really know how I stacked up. Though it was safe to bet I was pretty stacked as an 8th grader with Cs. I did hear one girl in my dance class had Ds. The rumor flew. “Can you imagine?” One gossiper asked me.
“No.” I knew by her connotation to tailor my answer, but I was almost floobing out of my cups. So, yeah, I could imagine having Ds, and I was terrified.
“I would kill myself if they ever got that big,” she dramatized.
“Yeah.” I agreed, secretly hoping that the floobie I was experiencing was just my bra telling me it was worn out.
My floobies once again got me another trip to Victoria’s Secret. Turns out, mine were Ds too. I cried in the dressing room. I found a different style bra I liked and my mom bought it in every color. This was getting expensive. Then, just when we thought they couldn’t get any bigger… 5 months later I was back at Vicki’s picking out DDs. This time I was only allowed a black one, a white one, and a nude one, just in case this wasn’t the end. I cried again. 5’2″ with 34DD, I looked like a cartoon character.
Flattering leotards were becoming increasingly harder to come by as were clothes. I was basically a 10 up top and a 4 on the bottom. Then summer approached and the tube top 90s fashion was anything but bra friendly. I began to notice divots in my shoulders from my bras and my terrible posture while sitting, as well as neck pain from pulling my straps too tight. And I was only 15. I would joke with my flat chested friends, if I could only give them some of mine.
By the summer of sophomore year, it was full on hate to my boobs. My best friend and I were inseparable that summer and I spent most nights at her house crushing hard on her sister’s friends. We were totally in love with several members of that year’s senior class and would drool over the yearbook while waiting for them to stop by.
It seemed like overnight I had gone from humble housewife Cs to pornstar DDs. With equal swiftness I went from being a nobody to my body preceding me. People somehow began to recognize me as “Juggs.” Perfect (sarcasm font). The one thing I hated about myself had now developed a nickname.
Keep in mind, it was still the summer. I was on the Dance Team, so I was around the school for practice, but I was crossing paths with only a small section of the student population. Regular classes didn’t start for another month, how was this getting around so fast? Every party, gathering, bon fire, monday night bowling I went to people would snicker as I walked into the room. To be honest it was mostly dudes, because no self respecting chick would call another girl Juggs. No one ever said it to my face, so I wasn’t entirely sure how deep this ran. I was waiting in line for the bathroom at a party and got stuck next to a guy who was just putting two and two together. He turns to me and says, “Oh you’re the girl with the really big…” Pregnant pause as I glared at him, “Eyes. Really big eyes.” Great cover.
By the first football game of the season, I found out the origin. My bestie’s on and off again boyfriend had been partying at her house with her sister while her and her parents weren’t home. He and a couple other dude’s managed to pass out in my best’s room. When dude opened his eyes the first thing he saw was a picture of me and her on her wall and he said, “fuck, that chick’s got some juggs!” And everyone thought it was hilarious. I had an air of mystery because I didn’t directly run in their circle and I wasn’t in their grade, yet when I would show up at functions it would be a Juggs sighting. When school started, I had had about enough of the nickname.
You would think after a few months this would blow over, but never underestimate the amusement of adolescent boys in a boring town. For a while I just thought it was joke between my best’s on-again boyfriend and his friends. If it stayed amongst the senior class, I could deal with it. I didn’t have any classes with them and they didn’t shout it down the hallway. It would be awkward when another person would finally put the Juggs to the girl. “Oh YOU’RE Juggs.” I’d just smile a bashful smile. It went on like this for months.
My skin had gotten a little thicker by the time the dance team was rehearsing the Guy/Girl dance. My partner was a handsome shy football player with six pack abs who would later become my high school sweetheart. However, his brother, who was in the senior class, still thought the whole Juggs thing was hysterical.
When I would call his house he would tell my new sweetheart, “Juggs McGee on the phone for you.” He would be teased relentlessly around the house as brothers do. My sweetheart did not let it slip past him. I had no idea Juggs was a household name until the day I met his mother.
Much later, after I became a regular at their house, did my sweetheart tell me that for the first 3 months of our relationship (and the day she met me) I was referred to as Juggs McGee. She did not actually know my name for some time. Even after she met me she couldn’t remember my real name. Later we were all able to have a good laugh about it and his parents had “Juggs” airbrushed on a t-shirt for me while they were in Florida. A weird sign of affection, but I think it was affection and not detest.
The nickname didn’t follow me to college, thank God, the people I met there were slightly more mature. Only slightly. I am still called Juggs by certain people from my hometown. And that’s cool. Everyone has a history, even my chest.
Just in case you were wondering, here’s what Urban Dictionary had to say:
January 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
Every boob has a story. Some are more exciting than others, but most are quite sensitive. As a young girl, dressing up my Barbies was the only real exposure to how boobs should look, unless I came across an older girl in the dressing room of the dance studio who forgot her modesty. Barbie has quite the bust, so when my own were budding in 5th grade, I didn’t really notice. After all, it seemed too early. Sure there were rumors about a couple a girls I heard HAD to wear a bra because they were blooming early, but I was pretty sure bras were optional and people were making a fuss over nothing.
When the snow started to melt at the end of 5th grade, short shorts and hormones became an issue among my tween peers and the school board. I quickly learned most girls in my grade were shaving their legs. I just kept quiet (I was really good at that), how did they know they needed to shave their legs? Later that summer I got a tutorial from a brunette friend. We hopped in her shower with our bathing suits on and she showed me how to lather up the shaving foam and be careful around the knee.What else was I in the dark about? The half hour of sex ed I had been shoved into wasn’t really covering all of this.
I was terrified of getting my period at school. The girl in 5th grade who had to wear a bra borrowed my flannel once to tie around her waist because she leaked. What’s leaking? A couple more early bloomers would have us “check” by walking briskly a few paces ahead so we could see their bums and look for blood. Blood? How much blood? Right after I had my shaving lesson I spotted for three whole days. I barely needed a panty liner. This was it? This was what all the complaining was about? I could totally handle this for the rest of my life AND go horseback riding whenever I wanted. However, the panty liner did prevent me from swimming at the popular girl’s last day of school pool party. I was benched with a few others who “forgot their bathing suits”.
Entering into middle school was a different story. Boys were taller, and my mom decided I needed a training bra. She literally tried to convince me to try it on over my clothes in Mervyns. If you don’t remember Mervyns it was a step down from JC Penny. I wasn’t doing that. Whatever, it will work, she bought me three. Things progressed rapidly from there. All of us sudden I was falling out all over the place and started getting embarrassed changing for gym class. I also found running to be the worst thing in the world. I was in ballet class 5 days a week, but I couldn’t get it together to run the mile. The training triangles weren’t doing a very good job of being supportive, but I didn’t know any better. No one else I knew was wearing underwire in 6th grade. I also didn’t want to go bra shopping with my mom ever again.
The one day I wore a skirt to school was the day I really started my period. There was no mistaking this. Panicking, I just put a wad of toilet paper down my underwear and booked it to my locker to grab the pad my mom had given me for emergencies. This was it. This was definitely it. I was so flustered I tucked my skirt into my tights and wandered back to Social Studies hoping to see a trusted friend so I could tell her what was going on in my panties.
After surviving nearly a week on the rag, I knew I never wanted it again. The next time it came around, I had swim class so my mom ponied up to give me the tampon instruction. Meanwhile, my tatas were spilling out of my training wheels and getting into all kinds of accidents. I started to develop what my mom calls “floobies.” A floobie is when the bra cuts your boob in half because it is too small and you look like you have 4 boobs instead of 2. Well, the little patches of fabric holding my chest up were making 4 floobies. I looked like a nursing golden retriever. I went from Mervyns training bra floobies to a Bali 34C in less than a week. Yes, I was stuffing Cs into triangles. “You HAVE to wear a bra,” my mom cautioned as she waited outside the dressing room. Yes, I got to go in the dressing room, and I had to let her in so she could check my work. It just made me more depressed as I had to pass on the 32 & 34 & 36 B. I hated everything about having boobs and having to wear the bra. For so long I thought it was optional. Optional for some, but not others. Sort of like those kids who have to wear helmets. I remained pissed off at my tits and their mandatory helmets.
I wanted to hide them, but if I wore a baggy t-shirt I looked pregnant. If I wore tight shirts I got unwanted attention and people thought I was slutty. By 7th grade things were getting out of control. I got a very supportive sports bra with hidden underwire so I could run a successful mile. Leotards and dance costumes had become increasingly more difficult to deal with and I began to hold straps together with a hair clip in the back to make an X. The tension on the straps made my shoulders red and raw while also giving me a classic uniboob. So why did people love these things again? To help me make peace with my developed body my mother too my to Victoria Secrets and bought me every color of the angel bra in a 34C. Just in time for my first boyfriend.
Disclaimer: This is a long story. Next week I’ll tell you about my unfortunate nickname in high school and how a 34C would just be the tip of these icebergs. Also there will be no more talk of periods if that turned you off. I usually post on Tuesdays/Wednesday-ish.
January 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
Before SNL was “On a Boat” or had its “Dick in a Box” there were “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey” and if you don’t remember these, it’s past your bedtime. Go to sleep.
These deep thoughts covered a plethora of topics and were funny, poignant, some of them strange, and some of them rude. Which is to say most were pretty brilliant. Fun fact! Jack Handey is a real person who started these musings in 1975 with Steve Martin (if you’re under 23, he’s that white haired guy with the banjo, or you might remember him from “The Pink Panther” 1 & 2, or the romcom classic, “Father of the Bride,” your mother made you watch).
Deep Thoughts By Jack Handy went a little something like this:
It would open on the beach, or a flower, or a meadow, or something equally calming. The text would come up on the screen with voice over.
Deep Thought: If you lose your job, your marriage and your mind all one week, try to lose your mind first, because then the other stuff won’t matter that much.
Much cheaper than getting getting Justin Timberlake’s wig and mutton chops to stay put while on a boat for eight hours.
I make a lot of random notes I think may become brilliant posts that will get me an agent. They don’t. Most of them are just randoms, and nothing worth exploring further. Much like a make out partner at the bar in college. I would like to share them with you now so they don’t shrivel up as tweets somewhere never to be retweeted by a bored teen.
Deep Thought: Skinny girls are like futons. It’s alright to sleep on a couple when you’re young, but when you’re shopping for long term, you’re going to want a pillow top.
Deep Thought: Sometimes you just need to really read a Lululemon Bag and argue with it. Seriously, some of those facts are just made up and not real things for real life.
Deep Thought: I WILL adjust my boobs. It’s just like when you adjust your balls. And yes there is a chafe risk.
Deep Thought: Following TEDtalks on Instagram will always makes you feel like a douche for following Cosmo and Cameron Diaz. Probably should go do something innovative and amazing and not spend one more minute agonizing over who wore it best.
Deep Thought: If we were all on a mission to be as adorable as possible at all times we all would be corgis. And there would be no war.
Deep Thought: Quick poops are life’s way of giving you back the extra minutes you spent in traffic.
Deep Thought: You know you really made it when you’re so rich you have a real excuse to wear really nice pajamas every night of the week. No sweat stained free t-shirts for you.
Deep Thought: I’m on a similar life path as Brittany Spears. I may have gone completely insane for the later half of my 20s, but I’m pulling it together now. I’ve got a good looking weave. Things are just great.
Deep Thought: At one point or another we can really be happy we didn’t go through with sharing a life with that horrible someone we were so positive we were going to marry one day.
Deep Thought: Hand jobs/blow jobs are basically oil changes for your day to day relationship engine. If you do them as regularly scheduled everything with keep running smooth. If you ignore the sticker on the windshield, prepare to get into an argument over every breath you take.
Deep Thought: Why have stockings to hang by the chimney with care? Why not just put candy and small gifts in actual socks. That way you have two to open and can wear them later when your feet are cold.
Deep Thought: The grocery store, at any time, is the worst sampling of humans possible. Everyone is avoiding eye contact, and they are all out to run you over with their cart to get the last bag of baby carrots.