My husband was shopping for a workout outfit for me recently at a fitness store and not sure what size bra top to buy for me. The clerk logically asked him for my bra size. My husband replied “She doesn’t wear a bra.” The employee persisted: “Well, what cup size is she?” Somewhat annoyed, my husband then blurted out “She has no boobs.” The flabbergasted woman had no comeback.
The truth is, I have microscopic boobs. Phil Mickelson’s are bigger. Perhaps my husband might have more judiciously said that I’m “fashion model sized” up top, but I’m okay with his answer. Lucky for me, my husband is a leg and butt man.
For most women, boob size is a big deal, especially in SoCal, where I live. A ridiculously high percentage of women at my health club have suspiciously perky ginormous sized breasts. I don’t get it. Do they do it to make themselves feel more attractive or are they out to snag some hard bodied stud? I hear stories of teenaged girls whose parents buy them boob jobs for their 18th birthdays. I find this sad.
For most of my youth, I was a good “B” cup. I always found bras uncomfortable, but since I was practicing law, I had to endure so as not to have my nipples on display during trial. My body must have sensed my bad attitude because I developed a small cyst due to brassier-to-skin contact, resulting in many additional tests that involved smashing and tugging at what little I have, added doses of radiation, and worry about breast cancer. When I retired from law, I rewarded myself by banishing the nonfunctional undergarment. Miraculously, the offending cyst reabsorbed and never reappeared.
Once I started my career as a personal trainer and wellness coach and had more time to focus on living a healthy life, I gained muscle and lost some flab, much of it from my already marginally sized “girls.” Oh well. The only way to be a lean calorie incinerating machine and have normal sized knockers is to go under the surgeon’s knife. Not my choice.
I can’t say I’m terribly upset to be flat chested at 59. It has a lot of advantages. Nothing gets in the way of my golf swing, I don’t get whiplash when I run, and gravity and age have not reshaped my boobs into teardrops at my waist. While it’s true that most of my sweaters, tops and dresses look like something has gone missing on top, I don’t let that worry me. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this layering style will stay in vogue until my demise.