When Your Cup Runneth Over And It Ain't A Good Thing

The thing about being pregnant, I mean, like, one of the main things that just makes me absolutely miserable is the boob situation.

Bowling balls.

Some of you may enjoy this side effect of pregnancy. But when you’ve battled overgrown knockers your entire life, battening down the flesh with two and sometimes three sports bras at a time, you know what I’m talking about.

I’ve been tempted to get out this old scale I bought years ago when I decided I was going to measure my food. You know, in some futile attempt to eat the appropriate portion as opposed to an amount that would feed a third world village. I used the scale once but, like I was saying, I’m tempted to dig out the scale again and plop one of my enormous milkers on it just to weigh the poundage I’m sporting around these days.

I won’t do that though because it would be demoralizing.  But I’m thinking they’ve gotta way five pounds apiece.

At least.

I don’t enjoy the feel of my boobs hitching a ride on my belly. I also don’t enjoy the feeling of sitting in my own lap. Like some kind of fleshy snowman, my stomach sits on my lap, the boobs sit on the stomach and when I need to take a really deep breath I glance surreptitiously around the newsroom before hefting my bosom heavenward, inhaling and then drop them back on my poor, crushed diaphragm.

Bras are expensive as hell.  If you’re still reading this, if you made it this far, you know that already.  When your boobs shoot up six sizes in six months, you don’t really want to splash out for expensive new bras when your mammaries are just going to deflate faster than a popped tire when you stop breastfeeding.  Which means I have one bra that fits.  One bra that doesn’t give me the dreaded Double Boob.  You know, when your cup runneth over?  And it ain’t a good thing?

Every morning I give The Bra the smell test and let’s be honest here, it always passes.  Not necessarily because it smells fresh but because there is no alternative.  I can’t bring myself to purchase another $40 bra and nothing else fits.  So my bra buddy and I reunite for yet another day of fleshy, fabric togetherness.

I miss my old bras.  And my old boobs, for that matter.

Photo Credit: flickr.com/bigbras (As if I would post a photo of my own overused, dirty bra!)

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