Thank dog for implants

I am old enough to remember back in the early nineties, before breast implants were widespread, how hard it was to find bras with a small back and a large cup. Even when you could find G or H cup bras in the Ladies department of Filene's, you could never find them smaller than 36 inches. In addition to having no range of sizes, they were all old-lady bras and went for about $50 bucks a pop. For a fifteen year old buying bras with her babysitting money on furtive trips to the mall, it was a pretty sucky situation. I was relieved to be able to dispense with Olga-brand beige cups the size of your head (as some humorous smaller-boobed friend demonstrated) when I got the breast reduction at 18, and moved on to the much easier-to-find world of the 34D. It wasn't a piece of cake, but it wasn't so impossible to find pretty bras.

At some point when I was living in the UK, bras suddenly started showing up in a much larger (heh) range of sizes due to the widespread popularity of silicone breast implants (and later, saline). That was a relief since I had only been able to find 36Cs in the UK before that and the band slid up my back and hormonal birth control had given the girls a boost (unwanted, but I made the best of things by ensuring they didn't go unappreciated.) Then I moved to New Zealand, lost a bunch of weight because my first marriage was breaking up, and found that 32DDs fit me better. And ever since, I've been wearing this one sportsbra that I bought over there (Elle MacPherson brand, which I couldn't find here.) That was in 2005. I have been wearing the same bra at least once a week for four and a half years. Jesus. I've put on 20 pounds in that time.

So I decided it was time to get fitted for real. Lo and behold, I've graduated to a 32E. I'm still kind of gobsmacked. That seems like a big size when I have been thinking of myself as a D all these years.


Hard to argue with the evidence, though.

It has been a week of self discovery, in fact! I went to the dentist also, and confirmed that I grind my teeth in my sleep. (I had been hoping that all the times Dave woke me up in the night to tell me to stop grinding were freak isolated occurrences, like hurricanes in Florida in September. All just isolated freak occurrences.) The hygienist informed me that I have also been chewing on my tongue. She could tell from the calluses along the sides of it. Jesus H. Christ. Who chews on their own motherfucking tongue? I mean, obviously I do, and there are enough other wackjobs like me that it's a known phenomenon, but what the fucking fuck? I was all happy about not having cavities and not getting yelled at for flossing wrong until I found out that the dentist-provided mouthguard costs $550 and usually isn't covered by dental insurance. I guess I'll be chewing on my tongue for a while longer, because I just spent all my money on new 32E bras.

Then the hygienist asked me if I have dry mouth and I was all, "No way!" until I remembered that I'm constantly thirsty and made the connection. Apparently one can treat dry mouth with the help of toothpaste, mouthwash and serum. I tried the toothpaste and mouthwash tonight. It was definitely less delicious than my regular toothpaste, but whatever, it seems to be working a little. Bring on the serum!

Man, apart from some blog entries I've read about mastitis, this was the unsexiest post I've ever seen that was all about boobs. Yay me! Setting new records for internetian naval-gazing!