Ban the Bra! Just kidding....

If you are like me, the most comfortable and anticipated time of the day is when I can set my girls free and rip off the over the shoulder boulder holder! After going through a day of constriction, pinching, twisting, wire gashing and feeling like I'm in a straight jacket, I can't wait until my foot steps into my entrance way, I look around to make sure that no stray neighborhood children are lurking around the corner and I quickly reach back, unsnap and whip that baby off of my Big Berthas and sigh a huge sigh of relief.

I am sure there are some gals out there that relish wearing a pretty bra. I do too. For the first 20 minutes I have it on. Then, I sit, walk, begin to sweat and itch and realize that the twins are doing the mambo in their hammock and that makes it very uncomfortable to concentrate on what is really important. What comes to my mind in the heat of the summer is, "I wonder if I have another heat rash developing", or "I knew I should have stuffed paper toweling under the twins before I left". When you are big busted and a bit saggy, your daily mantra consists of showering, powdering, papering and praying.

My smaller busted friends cannot understand what the big deal is. They don't get heat rashes under their girls nor do they suffer from under wire drama. Their cute, lacy and beautiful bras stay put and cover their minuscule mosquito bites. My larger busted friends commiserate with me all the time. They know to keep a large supply of baby butt creme stashed away in the medicine cabinet in the summer, even if they don't have a baby in the house. They buy powder by the case and it looks like it snowed in their bathroom each morning.

I remember in 3rd grade, seeing some girls donning white strapped things under their blouses and thanked the Lord above that I didn't have to do that. Then, miraculously, during the summer before 4th grade I grew to a B cup size. It must have been those hormones the farmers were feeding the cows. I went to school with the feeling that everyone was staring at my chest. I was so self conscious. My mother didn't help by buying me skin tight, stretchy shirts that accentuated the fact that I had straps over my shoulders and something covering my peeps. By 5th grade, I was a C cup and by the time I entered high school, a double D. I hid under big shirts and layers of sweaters because I was much bigger than most of my friends. One day in 10th grade, I decided to wear a form fitting sweater on the first day of school and earned the nickname, "Brickhouse" from the boys. Only to have that name follow me all the way through high school, to the football games, to the restaurants that the high school kids frequented after games and I would hide my face as the boys rushed to the juke box to play the song that promoted my namesake.

In college, I was up to a triple D and when I ran, it felt like the whole Earth was shaking on my chest. I still hated bras. I would have much rather held my sisters in my hands than experience the discomfort of wiring contorting around my ribs and getting soaked with perspiration during that hour of exercise.

I cannot shop at places like Victoria's Secret. I guess their biggest secret is that they don't cater to the large chested woman. Unless I order from catalogues, I am stuck getting the biggest size available at stores that cater to larger women.

So, what's a bigger bosomed woman to do? I go bra-less whenever I can. At home, the twins hang out with my stomach and rest comfortably upon it. I count the minutes in the day to when I can let them loose. When I work outside in my yard, I leave the straight jacket in the house too. Hey, if the neighbors have a problem with a mis-shapen looking chest, then they can pull the shades. At my age, my breasts are having a contest to see which one can reach the floor the fastest. They will never be perky again. They sport stretch marks that I call my battle scars and when pulled up into their holster, they can still look pretty darn good with a low cut shirt. I was one of those girls that relished the "burn the bra" era. It made sense to me. I guess my sense however, didn't fit with common sense and it really didn't become a successful movement (please know that I do realize what the movement actually meant!).

So, I relentlessly put myself through a contortion, powdering and papering drama each morning so that I can fit into society. I sure hope that everyone I come in contact with appreciates my efforts, even though they most likely have no idea what kind of sacrifice I am making just to "fit" in.

For all my big, busted comrades out there... I salute you!