Most days, I like my boobs.
Apr. 12th, 2004 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanI've got a nice pair, a fact the world's pretty much not let me forget since around the time of the seventh grade. And really, most days, I don't mind that I can't wear Abercrombie & Fitch's cute little tops or strapless dresses, because while milkshake alone may bring some boys to the yard, I've never found halter tops to be a hindrance. They're among fashion's rare gifts to full-figured women, but a pretty nice one: practical, fun, available in styles that run the gamut from modest to slutty. For them, I am grateful.
The seventies, however, were not the time for busty women. Well, as my mall excursion this afternoon revealed, apparently that abstract shapes/odd colors abundance (or pneumonia-inducing dearth) of open-cut, fake material as tops style is making a comeback (while this trend-capital-of-North-Central-Florida store played the greatest hits of the early '90s on the radio. This did not at all help the urge to do the Time Warp, already strong enough with all the middle schoolers milling about given that it was early afternoon.) As much as I adore the prints and funky slinkiness, there is sadly simply no way I can walk around without ample support as a general rule.
After that depressing episode and resigning myself to the classics for another season, I needed a reason to remember the aforementioned appreciation for my girls, so to celebrate my dependence, I bought two lovely bras. On sale! And so pretty. I have a red bra again, something you only understand as a wardrobe staple if you have one. And a sexy little black number, which I've been searching for longer than ever. They just don't make pretty bras in my size. I found out the secret though - 38C. Because everyone and their mother/daughter/niece/aunt wears a 36D. I'd never thought to go up a number and down a cup size since outgrowing my beloved 34C, but huzzah! They're happy and not quite so self-conscious about being cumbersome (as all but two of my current bras make them feel.) The world is mine again.
This concludes your latest riveting chapter in the "life" of Jules.
The seventies, however, were not the time for busty women. Well, as my mall excursion this afternoon revealed, apparently that abstract shapes/odd colors abundance (or pneumonia-inducing dearth) of open-cut, fake material as tops style is making a comeback (while this trend-capital-of-North-Central-Florida store played the greatest hits of the early '90s on the radio. This did not at all help the urge to do the Time Warp, already strong enough with all the middle schoolers milling about given that it was early afternoon.) As much as I adore the prints and funky slinkiness, there is sadly simply no way I can walk around without ample support as a general rule.
After that depressing episode and resigning myself to the classics for another season, I needed a reason to remember the aforementioned appreciation for my girls, so to celebrate my dependence, I bought two lovely bras. On sale! And so pretty. I have a red bra again, something you only understand as a wardrobe staple if you have one. And a sexy little black number, which I've been searching for longer than ever. They just don't make pretty bras in my size. I found out the secret though - 38C. Because everyone and their mother/daughter/niece/aunt wears a 36D. I'd never thought to go up a number and down a cup size since outgrowing my beloved 34C, but huzzah! They're happy and not quite so self-conscious about being cumbersome (as all but two of my current bras make them feel.) The world is mine again.
This concludes your latest riveting chapter in the "life" of Jules.
