Far easier, though, just to make a large, curved gesture at the front of your body.
It was those things on the front of my body, which secrete milk after childbirth. They were emotionally intimidating a grown man. I spend a few weeks wondering what, exactly, he wants me to do with them, then transfer to a different course. Is it any wonder that my breasts and I have had a complicated, often confusing relationship? Over time, my bra size has varied from a 32C at my smallest to a 38K at my biggest, while I was pregnant with my second daughter.
Now, at the age of 34, I find myself the not-so-proud owner of a pair of 32GGs that protrude from my size frame like an obscene cake topper. This year, I lost 3st in weight, but went down only one cup size.
Here are a few things that my enormous breasts make me feel: Back in the days when my boobs were perky, I took full advantage — and why not? Pushing my elbows together while leaning over packed-out bars usually meant I got served very quickly; when I worked as a waitress, the contents of my tip jar seemed to swell in direct correlation with the tightness of my shirt.
However, staying in control of a huge pair of breasts is difficult. In the same way that people will touch a pregnant belly without seeking permission, big breasts are often treated as public property. Biggest boob can carry she
Perverts offer to help me look for mislaid items. Nobody would ever ask an overweight woman to disclose her clothes size or a beaky man if he was considering a nose job.
But around the time I turned 30 and gave birth to my first daughter, I found myself wanting to be taken more seriously, and to fit in with the other mothers I met. They want me to be the person I was before my children came along. Like me, they also find exercise difficult — even low-impact activities such as swimming my breasts are essentially giant flotation aids and yoga I must forgo any poses that involve lying on my front, or side, or bending over.
Despite wearing as many sports bras as I have legs, I struggle to heft my breasts along with me on my regular jogs. The biggest source of frustration and misery, however, the one that eclipses all others, is the daily torment of getting dressed. Necklines are the biggest minefield: The list of no-go areas for dressing the top-heavy body is endless.
No to anything flowing or loose-fitting, unless you want to be a human marquee. Animal prints, gingham, pigtails, corsets or knee-high boots will make anyone bigger than a D cup look like a porn star.
Well-stacked women have the utterly useless talent of making even the most expensive, exquisitely cut garment look instantly obscene. They boast two-inch-wide straps and cups that come up to my collarbones.
When I weaned my youngest child recently, it felt a good time to take a proper look at my breasts.
Circled with angry purple stretch marks, they now point due south. The skin that covers them is creped and saggy. They bear the scars of tiny teeth and nails. I conceal my breasts as best I can: Covert research into breast-reduction surgery tells me that the procedure is painful, invasive and carries serious risks.
I also think I could live with the not-insignificant scarring the scalpel would leave in its wake. My breasts are safe for now.