“To G or not to G.”

It sounds like a famous scene out of Hamlet, but it’s actually me sitting around pondering a breast reduction.


Maybe, but it feels like I’m slowly suffocating under the weight of my own boobs. Sure, they look nice, but they are really freaking heavy.

Imagine you are laying on an idyllic beach. You are enjoying the sun and the surf when two giant sea tortoises decide to camp out on your chest. At first, you’re like “HECK YES! I have some endangered ass species camped out right here. So lucky! I could look at them all day.” They are pretty rare as far as tortoises go, and other people stare and whisper. Your sea tortoises become the topic of conversation among other tourists. People ask for photos of them. The attention gets to be a bit much. Then your friends decide to leave and get ice cream and you’re like “WAIT UP, I’m right behind you, hauling these GIANT ASS SEA TORTOISES with me!”

Running is basically impossible. There are reasons there are so few official sports bra sponsors of ultra marathons. At a certain point, there’s nothing you can do to exercise without looking pornographic (and you can forget using the massage chair in the lobby at the gym without drawing a crowd). Sports bras make my boobs look like the blob or a pair of ninja turtles.

At a certain point, I’m like Susan Powter yelling “Stop the insanity!” People don’t understand. Since my boobs are like rare giant sea tortoises, people romanticize how cool it must be to hang out with them all day. In the dead of summer, my bra certainly feels like an aquarium (epic boobs = boob sweat tsunami). I kind of want to drop them off at the pool and get something a bit less exotic.

Something less exotic is exactly what I need. Having giant boobs is like waking up in Thailand when you meant to go to Toronto. Thailand is nice and all, but I really wanted to go to the CN Tower. In this case, going to CN Tower is a metaphor for wearing a built-in bra tank top without depending on blind optimism and a hoody to cover not-grocery-store appropriate cleavage.

Like a well-stocked produce department, I’ve got these humongous coconuts because ultimately they are great for milk. I really believe in breastfeeding so I’m sucking it up so that one day my baby will be able to suck it as well (literally). When the baby factory is finally closed for good, I’m going to ditch the coconuts and go for something a little more lime.

“To G or not to G” is a dramatic question, but I’m tired of being suffocated. I think even Hamlet would agree that hanging out with giant sea tortoises for the rest of your life is completely impractical.

I’m not even a marine biologist for heaven’s sakes.

And who doesn’t love a twist of lime?


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  1. Argh totally!!

    These girls will be gone ASAP. One baby left then bring it on.

  2. I am a guy. And being a guy means I am not a gal, and therefore I think you’re absolutely nuts. As in crazy not to be bralessly, um sorry … I meant to say boundlessly overjoyed, beyond thrilled and oh so happy you’ve got “twins”. I know, that’s very male chauvinistic of me and from a male’s point of view my thoughts are without a doubt not in-line with traditional feminist thought. I say grin and bear it or is that bare it. I know again, because the latter makes me a creep and the former makes me an insensitive troglodyte. There are less endowed women the world over who so envy your physical predicament. To G or not to G? That’s a crime not a question. Good read. I have been sufficiently entertained.

  3. Omg, my girlfriends and I were just discussing this today, we’re both DD, and my lit’l sis is an F so we all feel your pain and that pain is real. We’ve all considered reductions but none so far are brave enough to go under the knife, we’ve known a few who have and they say it’s best thing since sliced bread.. Yeah well it’s that slicing that terrifies me!

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