My Relationship With My Boobs

My Relationship With My Boobs

By Chrisden Farrari

My aunt applies her face cream, it’s feminine smell envelops me like a hug. She puts on a sheer blouse, applies bandaids over her thin frame and tucks it into her white jeans.


I help as my mother folds the never ending piles of laundry. Her bras neatly folded in half are large, I see they are wider than my entire stack. She is petite, but curvaceous and complains about the clothes and sizes she must buy.


I listen as my father lovingly refers to my mom by her pet name. I am too young to realize it’s a nickname for her prominent anatomy. Stories are told, I learn her bust enters a room before the rest of her.


I peer through the window as my 25 year old cousin dressed in a bikini top and shorts, grabs a shirt and heads out for a day of fun. Her carefree essence and obvious appeal as she jumps in their car leaves me with a tickle of envy. She reminds me of my Barbie doll.


This is my relationship with boobs.


Small

Large

Medium


All on women I love.


I sit on my bed. An innocent question about whom in the family my body will most resemble as a woman garners the answer “we will just have to wait and see”.


Years later It’s summer; I am on the dock jumping into the water in my favorite one piece. I’m new in town and about to start a new school. Kids I realize are peers ask me how old I am. Their faces and snickers tell me they don’t believe I’m as old as I say.


I wait. I am what they call a late bloomer. I sit in my new class all too conscious of the of bra straps peeking through the other girls’s clothing. I feel the cotton of my tee directly against my skin and feel shame. I put on my sweater despite the temperature.


Seasons change. My male classmates ignore me. Despite my thin frame, I wear bulky oversized layers to hide.


This is my relationship with boobs.


I am an adult now; birth control, age and life experience have given me confidence to wear clothing that shows my now gentle curves.


I am lucky my girlfriends say, my clothes button with ease and I can wear any style. They tell me oh, “You can wear any bra or anything you like, it is not like you NEED the support”. The reality is, many of the things I want to wear are simply too large. Chicken cutlets, tailoring and the contemporary brands are my go to solutions.


I enjoy my career as an apparel buyer. I travel to New York and live to shop not just for myself but others.


I marry. I have cups sewn into my custom strapless dress, as bridal lingerie and gown shopping prove I am not the ideal size no matter how many clips they use to pull in the bodice.


I move my way up the ladder and change jobs. I find myself at the bastion of intimate apparel. Suddenly my entire professional life is boobs, bras, and more boobs all day, everyday. The pink hallways consume me. The black and white timeless photography of almost naked, thin but buxom women with perky swells become my new normal. I drink the cool aid of the push up padded and squeezed phenomenon. I purchase thick bras and double my cup volume. I buy tighter fitting clothes; my confidence is high so long as I have enough layers of gel and foam between me and my heart.


This is my relationship with boobs.


I am pregnant. My small frame expands; everything grows to proportions I hope to embrace but secretly loath. This is not the joy I’m supposed to feel. I am terrified. Will these curves melt away? Nothing buttons, zips or snaps and yet I am supposed to celebrate.


My baby is born. I nurse and feel in my heart the rush knowing this is what my body is designed to do. The baby thrives and grows; yet my clothes still don’t fit. My boobs hurt. They swell to proportions beyond what I’ve ever artificially added. I find myself trying to hide behind layers once again only to realize it makes me look even bigger. My wardrobe changes as I try to find confidence.



Slowly the pounds disappear. The baby is older and needs my nourishment less and less. My body reacts and one day I look in the mirror and smile. My tiniest bikini once again fits. I am small but perky and I am joyful.


This is my relationship with boobs.


I learn the technical side of my work. The fundamentals of patterning and fit. I change products superficially to offer fashion and choice for clients. I shop the market for new and interesting things my customers like. I grow sales. I am lauded by my boss.


My bra size is not offered at my company. I am sister sized to a “more productive one”. Profitability is the name of the game. I accept it without hesitancy. It’s my job after all; make money.


This is my relationship with boobs.



Motherhood, career, life... it all happens. My confidence changes. I have two more children, swell and nurse..... I appreciate the power of my body and marvel at how much it can do.


I live on the west coast, the east coast, the Midwest, the southeast. I work for fancy companies, global brands, I work retail and wholesale, with manufacturers and entrepreneurs, start ups and omni channel companies.


Girlfriends confide in me. We share stories about our bodies; real or enhanced we all have a complicated journey.


My daughter is young but she watches me nurse her baby sibling and dress each day. She knows bras are mommies work. With her pint sized sass, she reminds me that someday when she is a mommy and can drive a car she too “can wear a bra”.


I get a call. Come to New York. The tide has changed. Bralettes, sports bras and light linings have replaced “add a cup”. Celebrities of all sizes are going braless. What do women want and need?


My insides burn with desire. I want to be a part of the change I see happening. I need to validate my own journey and those of so many other women.


I look through my dresser. In my lifetime I’ve been many sizes and yet my drawer today contains mostly sister sizes or no wires.


I am professionally measured. As an Industry person I know how to do this, but I need the external validation.


The number comes back and my reality sets in. Should I seek my correct size, I am relegated to shop on-line and my options are underwhelming. What I want and what I can have are two separate things.


This is my relationship with boobs.


My flight deplanes. Well dressed International flight attendants and first class passengers wiz by. I pass the calm of the concierge level lounge and separately a mother in sweatpants straining to calm a screaming child at a gate.


I realize every person in this terminal has travelled, some with more style and civility than others; but we all conquered the aerodynamics.


I arrive in soho. I listen to my coworkers. Women of all sizes; not one fits in a box. They crave an interruption.


I know the logical reasons why the industry is the way it is, but it’s time to challenge everything about the conventional process of fit, construction and design I know so well. Technical engineering and style can go hand in hand.


Change is hard. It takes courage and a fearlessness to ask not just why, but why not.


This is my journey.


I am a 30D.

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