TEARING OFF THESE INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE IS SUCH A JOY
ONE of the greatest pleasures in my life comes at the end of the day when I go upstairs, undress and take off my bra.
To slip a pyjama top over my head and for my breasts to swing, bounce or simply be as I take that first full, unconstricted lung-full of air free from the horrible pinch around the ribcage — oh the feeling of relief and release is indescribable.
Who on earth would deny themselves that pleasure?
I am guessing this delight is something only we big-breasted women experience.
All day I have no choice but to encase my 34G breasts in a bra that doesn’t cup, but rather clamps them to my sternum leaving me feeling uncomfortable at best, breathless and trussed up at worst.
I have spent more than 30 years on a personal Odyssey to find the perfect bra — shopping all over the world, consulting all manner of expert bra fitters in my years working with Trinny Woodall as a fashion adviser, and I’m afraid it still eludes me.
The trouble is, bras have not changed in their design since their inception a century ago. They don’t support from the straps but rather force breasts up from the sternum like an instrument of torture.
And it doesn’t matter how much I spend on them — the most is about £100 — I still end up with sore, itchy strap marks scored across my body at the end of the evening. Is it any wonder that taking off my bra is something I look forward to all day?
Like most women, my relationship with my breasts, and the bras necessary to render them presentable and decent in clothing, has deteriorated with age.
I was a late developer and entered my 20s with a perfectly perky pair of C- cup breasts that I didn’t really think about all that much. I certainly don’t remember shopping with my mother for my first bra, or any momentous ‘coming of age’ event in a department store. A bra was something that a girl put on at the start of the day, took off at the end and didn’t warrant any further attention. They started to become an issue in my 30s. I had my first child, Joe, who’s now 20, when I was 36, and went up to a D-cup. My daughter Esme, two years later, took me to an E and Cece, who’s 15, left me an F. The menopause scored the final blow and today I resentfully strap my breasts into a G-cup. Each breast is easily the size of my head and weighs 6lb — I’ve weighed them! They stay the same size, regardless of my weight. Last year I lost a stone-anda-half — going from a size 16 to a 10/12, but my breasts stubbornly remained the same size. It is impossible to look fashionable or cool with big breasts. The only look that you can carry off is sexy or matronly, and at 56, I am gravitating towards the latter. I’ve whittled my bra collection down to around four bras by the likes of Triumph and Simone Perele — plus a Shock Absorber sports bra for running. Every night, as I unhook my bra and sigh with pleasure, I think, should I go for a breast reduction? But I always manage to talk myself out of it. Plus, my husband really likes my boobs, so that’s the main thing. They’re here to stay.