10 Emotional Stages Of Wearing A Button Up Shirt When You've Got Big Boobs
I feel like I'm a mostly body positive person, and work hard to make sure I'm teaching body positivity to my children. Then, of course, there are the moments when I falter, usually moments facilitated by button up shirts. When I'm forced to deal with buttons (especially once I reach the point of attempting to contain my upper half) I'm filled with irrational emotions that, well, aren't necessarily body positive at all. The emotional stages of wearing a button up shirt when you've got big boobs is enough to make any body confident woman crumble into some sort of momentary emotional hole of self-doubt. I mean, those damn shirts do nothing but provide large breasted women with this weird slew of juxtaposing emotions that, well, kind of drive me crazy.
My cups runneth over, and I'm sure that if you're in the same specially-sized bra that I'm in, you can (and do) absolutely understand my pain. It's a pain that is typically controlled without medication or intervention, but when a button-up shirt comes into the picture it sort of sends a big busted girl like myself into various stages of rage and psychosis. I don't like to hate myself and work constantly to cultivate body positivity at every corner (and I'm not a glutton for punishment, especially the kind that stems from body image issues) so I'm not sure why I continue to try to wear a button-up shirt, even though my attempts to do so have been disastrous at best. The heart wants what it wants.
So, I'll keep trying to button up those damn shirts and laugh-crying my way through every popped button, thankful that I'm (at the very least) not alone in my big-busted struggle. Here are a few of the emotional stages women with big boobs go through when attempting to wear a button up shirt, because #Solidarity.
"Oh, this shirt is so cute! I think I'll try it even though it has buttons and I know by now that this won't possibly end well for me." Yep, that's me, every time I see a cute button-up shirt that I want to try on. I mean, those shirts are adorable so it's hard not to be super excited about even the prospect of wearing one.
"It'll be different this time, right?" I can't tell you how many times I've tried to convince myself that "this time" is different while starting to button up a new shirt. I know better by now, but for some reason I continue to subject myself to the disappointment that is trying on a shirt that should, in theory, fit me just fine.
"Almost there, just one...more...button..." And then it hits me as I begin to stretch both sides of the shirt across my bust line in attempt to get them to meet in the middle: this isn't going to happen. Then I feel that familiar sting of rejection and start to cuss as I attempt to suck in parts of my body that are completely incapable of sucking in.
"I can do this. Maybe if I just push them down? No, that won't work. Okay, maybe if I slouch? Nope, that won't work either." I know that I'm defeated, yet I continue to try anyway. When the rage completely sets in and gifts me with a kind of strength I'd imagine only Hulk understands, I'm eventually able to get the shirt buttoned but the final product of my efforts leaves a gaping hole, not just in between the buttons that are fastened across my boobs, but inside my heart, too.
After fighting a losing battle and contorting my body into various shapes so that I might be able to button the shirt entirely, I realize that I am defeated. This hurts; it stings and it hits me with a resentment that I'm not used to feeling about my body. I'm normally very accepting of my outer shell and all of its flaws, but I can't help but feel disappointed and bitter.
Really? Another failed attempt to wear a button-up shirt? How have they not come up with some miracle fabric capable of accommodating a grown-ass woman's cup size? How is this possible?
This is usually the point where I throw the shirt across the dressing room after cussing it out and stomping on it. Then, I typically look at the mirror and curse my boobs while threatening to get a reduction. It's also at this point that I swear off all swim suits and v-necks shirts, too.
The relationship I have with button-ups is an emotionally abusive one, and I swear time and time again that I will no longer be a victim to ridiculous and obscured size charts. Still, I'm sad, because I like fashion and the shirts I want to wear are the shirts I can't wear.
You know what? Those shirts can go kick rocks. I love my body and for every shirt I can't wear, there's one I can. I look fantastic and I love my figure and just because one (or, you know, many) shirts don't fit, doesn't mean that my body doesn't fit me.