Today I treated myself to a new pair of skinny jeans and slip-on sneakers. I am revamping my “Mommy Wardrobe” to replace some worn and ill-fitting pieces now that I’ve lost a little weight. New sneakers and skinny jeans are the last major items I needed and I was delighted to find a pair of $35 Skechers and $24 KUT From The Kloth skinny jeans at Marshall’s. I carried my bounty to the dressing room to try on the pants and was asked to leave the shoes with the attendant.
“Guard these,” I giggled as I handed the shoes over. “It’s hard to find cute shoes that fit my big feet!”
The dressing room attendant gave me a wink and said the shoes would be safe so I turned my attention to the jeans. The first pair was a bust but the second pair fit amazingly well. I walked down the hall to the 3-way mirror and hemmed and hawed. Did I love them? Did my butt look ok? What did the pockets do when I sat? Would I wear them enough to justify the expense? And then the big one – how do they look with shoes on?
I have a major hang-up with the way skinny pants look with my big feet, and my feet aren’t really that big. But there is something about skinny pants coupled with athletic shoes that just, I don’t know, makes me think “Send in the clowns!” I tried the jeans on with my old sneakers and knew immediately that it was a no-go. But what about the new shoes? They were not as clunky as traditional sneakers. I crept out front and sheepishly asked the attendant if I could try the shoes on with the jeans. She gave me a funny look so I hastily added, “My feet are big and shoes look funny with skinny jeans.”
“Honey, no one cares about the size of yo feet! Ain’t no one looking at yo feet compared to yo jeans. You like the jeans and shoes? That is all that matters!”
I burst into laughter and she joined in.
“Oh my gosh, you are so right! I live in a city of 8 million people. NO ONE is looking at the size of my feet compared to the width of my jeans. This is the most ridiculous hang-up ever.”
I am now sitting in my living room wearing both, happily typing this blog post and feeling a little more comfortable in my own skin. And skinny jeans. And clown feet.
Last year I gave the massively padded bras of my past a giant F-YOU and tossed them down the trash compactor. It was a liberating moment – I don’t need no stinking fake boobies! I am woman, hear me and my flat chest ROAR!
Clearly I had forgotten what my natural boobs were like. Or maybe I assumed that after weaning I would be left with a respectable flap of skin that could at least be hoisted up into some form of cleavage. Or maybe I really was ready to embrace the no-boob look. What ever it was, 26 months into nursing and Sabine is very close to weaning (we are down to morning and night only!) and my milk is all but gone.
And with that milk, went the boobs. Or should I say boob. Lefty dried up months ago leaving nothing more than a pucker of breast and an exaggerated, almost cartoony nipple. Righty, on the other hand, is still able to put forth a few ounces of milk each day so she remains a respectable A cup. It’s ridiculous looking. So ridiculous that even the Professor laughed at them one night (to any men reading this – that is NOT the thing to do to your mentally unstable wife who is clinging to her last threads of sanity).
For the past 26 months I have lived in convenient nursing bras and comfy sports bras. My nursing boobs made me feel really sexy – they were a nice normal shape and a modest size. They fed my sweet little baby and did exactly what boobs were supposed to do. Dynamite comes in small packages, y’all! My post nursing boob and still-dying-up boob do not make me feel sexy. Between the uni-boob look and the lack of libido due to depression + Prozac, life is sad and sexless.
I joke that when I go in for the plastic surgery to repair my nose after the cancer is removed (which still has not happened – why not draw out the misery a little more and see just how close to the brink we can push Belle?) I’ll also have a boob job. My husband groans, rolls his eyes, and forbids it saying I’m perfect the way my uni-boob is… and that we are broke. In other words: Don’t go doing something stupid on a whim, Belle.
With a boob job off the table I’m turning to more economical, and less painful options – a properly fitting bra built for women who are small of breast, perhaps uneven of breast, and who want to look natural, not like they shoved pillows under their shirt. Great internet full of women who like to over share – what do you suggest? Anyone with me in the itty bitty, uneven titty committee? Any great bra innovations that you would like to see come around? Let us all join hands and celebrate that wonder that is the post-nursing bust line, and then hide it under some craftily created padding and lace!