Disclaimer: The author is not looking for sympathy with this post. It is meant to be a humorous look at the sometimes unwelcome changes in our bodies once we hit a certain age. She does, however, suspect that there will be some snarky comments and/or hate email as a result of this post.
“On that particular spring day, she wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a crisp, white pinstriped button-up shirt. The shirts had become a staple in her wardrobe. She liked that she could wear them with dress pants or jeans, accompanied by a pair of leather boots. When she wore those shirts, she felt stronger, more confident. She walked straighter and with a longer stride.
She had noticed that the shirts were fitting a little tighter but didn’t really pay much attention. As long as they still buttoned, she’d wear them. She just had to be careful in meetings. Lean too far forward and anyone sitting next to her or across from her would get an unexpected eyeful.
She had a meeting that morning with her department. She was running a little late, so had to set up the laptop as everyone sat around the table chatting. The buxom blonde reached across the table. As she grasped the jack and stuck it into her port, she heard a pop. She looked up to see the top button of her blouse shooting across the table, smacking her co-worker right between the eyes. It was her worst nightmare. Her breasts had finally popped her shirt.”
No, this is not a scene from a bad novel. It also never happened to me. But it could have. Especially last spring.
After years of not being able to eat what I wanted because I was living with a fussy household, I was finally free. I ate steak. I ate chili dogs. On the nights I was too tired to really cook, I made pasta. By spring, I had noticed my shirts were no longer fitting quite as well as they used to. I also noticed men making less eye contact when they talked to me. That was the most annoying part. Yes, when I gain weight, it goes almost entirely to my boobs. (This is where every woman reading flips me off.)
That button holding the girls in (yes, that’s what I call them…don’t judge) was stressed to the max. Rather than pop my top and have everyone scream, I stopped wearing them until they fit again. My wardrobe reduced significantly, and not yet being in a position to buy new clothes, I made a goal to drop just enough weight so that my shirts fit again. It was a bit of a battle. I lost a few pounds fairly early, but I seemed to plateau. I made more changes to my diet. Got a new job. Started exercising again. Even with the holidays, I managed to drop additional weight. I tried one of my shirts on yesterday. Fit just fine. No bulging. No potential popping. I no longer have to worry about putting someone’s eye out when I stretch, breathe, or lean forward. And maybe, just maybe, the guys will stop leering.
Now if you girls want to look…