Wednesday, February 22, 2012
In light of my previous post, I have a hereforeto undisclosed on-line confession to make. A few years ago, I went and had me a breast reduction.
Well, c'mon, you've seen my body frame, marrying it to a humongous, bouncing, double F cup set of "in-your-face" boobies, is nothing short of taking the piss.
An early developer, I soon found these "assetts" came with several drawbacks. For instance, I was captain of my netball team for goodness sake! (I mean, can you imagine..??) And clothes, what an ordeal.. you try finding something fetching to wear that fits a snug UK size ten bum, with the sad misfortune of being married to bazooka's half the size of China.
Frocks were out, skirts and trousers - that's all I could wear. As if that weren't bad enough, shopping for tops at Evans (the Outsize shop) was often a downright nightmare.. you have no idea how much hostility I could encounter in that place! And guys, listen up, talking at a woman's chest isn't cute, it's downright rude, okay? Trust me on this, a girlie prefers to be looked straight in the eyes, truly.
In my early twenties, after moving to London, a friend suggested I go to THE top bra-fitters, Rigby & Pellor, just around the corner from Harrods; fitters to the Queen as well as to countless other famous folks, these guys knew their stuff, if anyone could help me it was them. My pockets were not that deep truth be told, but I considered saving up for a visit there a wise investment. It's not a huge place by the way, by my it's busy! You literally have to take a ticket and sit in line.
Trouble is, the type of lady who can afford to shop at this place is not the type of lady who is used to being told to wait for much of anything. One middle-aged matron threw such a full blown hissy-fit, she ended up finding her high maintenance, normally much kissed arse, royally and unceremoniously escorted back out on to the pavement again. (The staff here much prefer to do rather than to receive the intimidation, and are far better at it.)
Still, the show that silly bint put on sure did help to pass the time on for the rest of us.
When my number finally came up, I was led trustingly to a cubicle and told to strip and spin.
Huh? Where was the tape-measure??
See, being just a little Pleb back then, I was completely unaware that professional bra fitters should never need to resort to actually measuring you. Oh my, no, they are so, so way above that. Like a perfumer relies upon the sensitivity of his nose, a qualified trained bra-fitter uses only her eyes to decide upon your perfect bra cup.
A word to the wise here, once she has decided this, please don't be so foolish as to believe you can buy just any old style of bra. No, those delicate, flimsy lace creations you eyed up on the way in may very well look oh, so sexy and alluring, but don't even think of asking for one in my size.
Not unless you want to make a complete and utter idiot of yourself.
See, those pretty little things are not for the likes of us well-endowed girlies, ut-uh, you need to get real.
What we need here are "Busten-Halters", no less - a kind of a cross between a parachute on pulleys, and an evil iron-cast, whale-bone wrap-round clamp (and which naturally also costs at least ten times the price of those aforementioned, much pined for skimpy bras), these that don't come in lace or in anywhere near as many lovely colours.
However, if I thought I had it bad when I was younger, I had no idea what lay ahead for me four kids down the line. No bra in the world was about to save me now. I often thought about tying them in a knot between my knees and flinging them over my shoulders, but as that would only turn me into a hunchback, I knew better than to follow through .
Nah my friends, I was not a happy bunny back then, oh, dear me no, not at all, at all, at all.
But hubby was far from sympathetic, he couldn't see the problem. Surgery?? Was I mad? There was no way he was about to contemplate having his toys taken away.
I tried to tell him, but he just wouldn' listen.
In the end I took it upon myself to slope off on my own, just to investigate the pros and cons of what a reduction involves.
This being a small island, there was the added complication of having to fly over to the mainland for the procedure. It wouldn't be that much of a hassle to get over, but coming back afterwards could prove a sight more tricky. Still, it depended on how dedicated you were to the cause, and in my case, I would have happily trekked barefoot over the Pyrenees, dragging my drip and drains behind me, if that was all it took.
So it was - armed with the facts - I told hubby all I wanted for Christmas (and my birthday) was to go under the knife.
Okay, it wasn't quite as simple as that, it involved lots of pouting, tears and blackmail, but I finally got him to blow his nose, calm down and to agree his grudging support.
I don't advocate surgery lightly, it was a lot of money and far more pain than I had ever anticipated - but for me the cost was well worth it. Nothing's been added, just a little taken away, is all. My surgeon equated it to shopping bags and groceries, and being as how mine were apparently far from empty, no silicone filler was deemed necessary. Yup, these babies are still very much ALL natural!
I wish I could say it was a simple, trouble free procedure, but that just wasn't to be. (That, my friends, would make a whole good new post all in itself.) But having said that, I can't tell you the joys of being able to finally sport a snug t-shirt, or of wearing a swimsuit without first hiding out in the deep end of the pool.
I've now taken to wearing dresses, using a treadmill (well, once or twice), and have also discovered a thrilling, naughty new found fetish for silk lingerie.
Oh, and hubby? Well, it's only been a few years, I'm sure he'll get over it, given time..