On March 21, 2001, I had a breast reduction. Before you say anything, I was a 36FF. You read that right. Nope, not a typo. And yes, they make bras that big. Butt ugly and industrial sized.
I inherited my tatas from my mum who used to heroically cram her monster puppies into a 44DD. I'm sure she was much bigger than that since she had the multi-boob look in shirts. You know what I mean... tons of excess boobage leaking out over the top and bottom of her bra.
People always assumed I was a) Stupid; b) Easy or c) Stupid (did I say that already?) because of my bust. I couldn't find cute tops, bathing suits, dresses or even jean jackets that fit just right. Not to mention the back and neck aches and the will to stay still.
Anyway, after Henry was born I decided to have something done about them. Thankfully Scott was as supportive as one of my giant bras. Not too many husbands would be if their wives came to them asking about halving the size of their favourite toys.
So five years ago my favourite plastic surgeon Dr. Michael Bell, removed 4 pounds (nearly 2000 grams) from my chest and now I'm a respectable 36D. I lost a bunch of weight after the surgery because I wanted to get up and move again. That's when I started running. Yay, no black eyes from the bouncing. And don't forget the shop shop shopping.
So Happy Booby-versary, Mary-Kate and Ashley. That's what I call them now that they're young, cute, perky and look a lot alike. It was the best thing I've ever done.
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