“They’re called Boobs, Ed.”

For all that this will likely be a tongue in cheek piece with snarky asides and some amusing visual aides; this is not an easy post to write. Most of the time I am at peace with my body. I can see it through the loving, lustful eyes of my wife. I remember the feats it preformed growing and feeding our children. I am confident in my ability to take care of business physically. I am the opener of stuck jars, the one who gets the tire iron moving, the primary mover for children, furniture and groceries.  My body is strong; it is powerful and capable of amazing things. And then I put on a bathing suit . . .

Let me start by saying: I am busty. Well Endowed. I have large tracts of land. (The last time I tried to get fitted at a department store, the poor ‘fitter’ ran out of letters well before she ran out of measure tape. I have to go to specialty stores and even there my selection is very . . . industrial.) My tummy has changed from my pre-children days, and the little pooch I’ve had since puberty has extra skin thanks to the triplets and Bam-Bam, the ten pound wonder. At six feet tall, I tend to balance out my middle, but my chest has been my largest measurement since high school.

Don’t get me wrong, the boobs can be quite fun. I never need to worry about filling out my bodice at Renn Faires or SCA events. I always have cleavage, even in a sports bra. My wife’s safe place is in my arms with her head on my chest. I was able to nurse and pump for my triplets for their entire first year and still have enough production to bag close to a gallon of milk (I wanted to donate it, as I had it in deep freeze, but couldn’t because I had been drinking tea with fenugreek and the milk bank wouldn’t accept it due to liver issues in sensitive babies).

They also suck. The back pain; the pain of underwire that is not wire, but cut sheet metal. The indents in my shoulders that I’ve had since before my 18^th birthday. Not ever having a shirt that really fits unless I tailor it myself. Having the choice between swimwear that my grandmothers would find too matronly or getting something custom made and hoping I didn’t just waste an enormous amount of money on something that I end up hating because it never fits.

 Case in point, we plan on going to a waterpark without the kids as part of our honeymoon and so Hunny and I decided to get new swimsuits. We have a custom swimwear place near us, and even though they took my measurements there, made a list of detailed changes to the basic pattern to make it fit me, when I tried it on yesterday . . . I almost cried. My tankini top looked like a maternity prom dress. And the top was nowhere close to fitting. They have to remake the entire thing. I am crossing my fingers that what they come up with will be better than what they made the last time.

Ok, onto the visual aides.

Here are some examples of what I’m assuming people around me see based on their behavior when I go into a store in a low cut top or (heaven forbid) a bathing suit top (in the event I have to grab some forgotten supply on the way to play in the water).

From most Men:

 

From many Women (generally of the less busty variety):  

 

From the older generation (of any gender):



 

What this makes me feel I look like:

 

What I actually look like:

 

I just love body issues . . . don't you?

 

- Vixi

 

 

A quick reminder about comments:

I screen comments before they are posted. I try to answer respectful questions to the best of my ability. I don’t mind spirited discussion, and I understand that there will be people who disagree with the choices I (and my family) have made. Personal attacks and hateful or discriminatory remarks will not be allowed.