I'm an H!

I figured since everyone already knows all about my uterus and ovaries, knowing my cup size wouldn't really be a drama!

I went bra shopping today. Desperately overdue. One of those things I always mean to get to but procrastinate about. Because let's face it, getting your top off in front of old ladies who are so polite about it really doesn't do much for me. I guess I'm funny like that.

Now I have large kadongas*. My ta-tas cast their own shadow and have their own gravitational force. Mr Cheeky and Mr Smoochy take great delight in slapping my funbags whenever I get dressed and Mr Cheeky has taken to pushing my cleavage together to 'make it wink'. Knowing this, I don't bother going to your run-of-the-mill clothing shop and head straight for the Big Boob Bra Boutique**

The lady of the BBBB (of course she was lovely) took one look at me and announced I'd be at least G. Possibly higher. Pfft. I politely told her that my current bra was clearly not supportive enough for my hooters because there is no way I could be a G. I was a G when pregnant with Mini-mi and no way in heck did I look like I had those footballs back, thank you very much. No way. No way at all.

She was nodding and grabbing the tape measure. She was wrong.

I'd be snarkily pleased about this if I was right but not only are my jugs a G, they have in fact graduated to an H.

H for Hot Damn Those Bazongas are HUGE!
H for Holy Crap I'm the Big Titty Queen!

I remember when I was 14 and flat as the bottom of a frypan. I remember staring at my Mum and older sister and desperately wanting to be big. To have bigger tits than all of them! Put together! Fuck. Careful what you wish for, hey?!



* Yes, I am trying to see how many nicknames for breasts I can include in this post. Humour me. It's Friday.

**this may not be its correct name