Bra shopping gives me the shits big time!

Today I would like to talk about boobs. Specifically, my boobs. More specifically, how much my boobs shit me.
  If you’ve ever seen my boobs (hi there ex boyfriends, my doctor, and that group of people I walked past at the beach that time my left boob had magically freed itself from my bikini) your reaction to this statement would be on par with your reaction to hearing Miranda Kerr complain she’s having a fat day: smiling fixedly while mentally cataloging available pillows nearby you can punch.
  I am aware that my boobs are glorious. Completely natural, soft, bountiful bosoms that nestle in their E/F cup home. However trying to find them a happy home is the bane of my existence. Bra shopping for me is faced with the same fear and grudging acceptance as answering the door on Halloween: it’s something that has to be done, however I feel strangely panicky giving lollies to costumed children. I despise it, I even break out in boob sweat just thinking about it…bra shopping that is, not feeding lollies to children.
  A dreaded shopping trip is imminent considering I recently asked my mum to fix my bra strap with a safety pin and some strapping tape. He replied with, “I’m not bloody McGuiver. Go shopping.”
  If you believed bra advertisements, one would think bra shopping simply involves trying on dainty little scraps of perfectly fitted colourful lace while posing all sultry-like in the mirror and thoughtfully twirling my highlighted hair. It does not. It involves Valium.
  I am insanely jealous of girls who can skip joyously la la la into Kmart and pick up a three pack of bras for $25. My bras cost $50 minimum. I must buy architecturally designed monstrosities with heavy duty scaffolding and a complex rigging system to hold up my humps. They’re not attractive. They also require an engineering degree to fasten.
  Those cute/lacy/sexy bras you see on the rack (tee hee…rack) are designed for As, Bs and Cs. The D and DD bras are simply not structured for the larger lumped lass. So they don’t hold them in, don’t hold them up, or my lovely lady lumps are mashed together at unseemly angles with more bulging flesh than an early episode of The Biggest Loser…not the episodes at the end of the season that I refuse to watch because the contestants are all thinner than me.
  It’s not just bras. Bikinis? I need a size 18-20 to keep the ladies locked in, but this means the bottoms take a trip to Saggy McSagville. “Buy separates!” I hear you cry. Sure, I’ll just sell my first born child and my left kidney to finance said separates.
  There is no sports bra in the world that can stop my jubblies jubbling while jogging. My brokeback mountains must be laced in a straightjacket before any kind of up/down motion occurs. I have to wear at least 2 bras. And a crop top. And a tight shirt. I’m even contemplating hiring someone to jog behind me and cup my cups up with their hands. (Perverts need not apply.)
  What’s that you say, my perky little B cup sisters? “I try on dresses and they look horrid because I don’t fill out the top! Life is so gosh darn hard!” Pull up your big girl panties and buy a matching padded bra to pump up the jam. Me? I can’t magically flatten my breasticles. I have to go up to a larger size dress, which ends up fitting on the up top but with so much material everywhere else I could make a second dress for a child or a very small adult.
  Speaking of padding, bra designers need to remove all padding from bras larger than a D. We do not need the extra oomph. We are fine as is, thanks. Padding makes my chest look (as my mum frankly terms it) ‘like the cows have come home.’ Thanks Mum. I love when you compare me to cattle.

This may sound like a massive whinge-fest. It is. But I feel better now.

Which fashion magazine just put an actual curvy girl on the cover?

A plus-size fashion magazine. And it’s actually stylish. Stylish and freaking FABULOUS.

DARE Magazine is new fashion mag that’s just been launched in Canada. It began as a thesis project for fashion student Diana Di Poce in her final year and it was so fab that she received backing to launch the mag as an actual glossie. Check out the first cover:

G.O.R.G.E.O.U.S. Diana spoke to Thought Catalogue recently about why she created DARE:

 

DARE is dedicated to catering to curvy women sizes 12+. Although the magazine is targeted towards plus women, I didn’t find it necessary to label it as a plus-size magazine in the logo or in the aesthetic. The average woman in North America is a size 14, so I didn’t see a purpose in stamping a 12+ label on the website or on the cover of the first issue. Similar to how I flip through straight-size fashion magazines for trend inspiration knowing that I won’t be able to fit into these garments or shop at the stores mentioned, I want all women to be able to go to DARE as a fashion and beauty bible. And it really is a fashion bible. Check out some more pics:

 

 

 

 

HELLS YES. Well done DARE Magazine. Well done.

 

When it comes to grocery shopping, a good game’s a fast game – and the self-servers win it.

 I use those self-service checkouts at the supermarket. I like them. I like the people who use them too. I suspect we are a type. It’s not just about speed or convenience; it’s little things that everyone feels, but few admit. For a start, I avoid the dopey kid who looks at herbs like they’ve only recently come into the country. Honestly, there’s only about 10 of them – it’s not like I’ve been foraging. Would it kill you to study two types of parsley so I don’t get held up by a price check?

 Or the pause as I watch the newbie try to remember what the supervisor said about packing boxes and bottles. It’s not Tetris. And no, milk doesn’t go on top of bread. They’re trying to do the right thing and everyone has to learn, but that pause as they try to remember which apple code to enter does my head in. And EVERYONE hates to pick up the slow line. It’s pathetic, I know, but watching someone who arrived at the next check-out after you grab their shopper docket and go while you’re still staring at a stationary conveyor belt that remains full of someone else’s groceries...well, that’s just unbearable.

 We all have our tricks; we all have our shopper version of racial profiling. If you’ve never seen Up in the Air, it’s worth watching for one scene alone. George Clooney’s character does so much flying, he has security-check queue picking down to a science. In part, he avoids queuing behind old people (“Their bodies are littered with hidden metal and they never seem to appreciate how little time they have left”) and always tries to get behind Asian businessmen (“They pack light, travel efficiently and they have a thing for slip-on shoes”).

 But now, in supermarkets, we have a choice, and it’s separating people who hate slow queues from people who hate them with a passion and would train in a simulator if it helped avoid them. By picking the self-serve check-out, you can avoid the most painful queue of all: the short queue/slow payers. The most common type of slow payer is the lady who waits until the check-out chick states the price and only then gets out her purse. And after slowly extracting the right notes and the gold coins, she really aims for precision: “Now what have I given you...60...70...I do have a ten-cent piece here.” Yes, I’m sure you do Mrs Smith, it’s buried under the shillings, pence and war rations. Come on, get with the times lady. Hand over a note and let the girl with that huge cash register FULL OF CHANGE get you out of my way, quick sticks!

 The staff at my local supermarket are actually particularly polite and very friendly. But as you can tell from my above-mentioned mood, in ‘shopper mode’ I can live without polite and friendly. I’m happy not talking when I shop. I talk a lot during the day. By 6pm on a Thursday night I’m done with chit chat. The self-serve machine might “talk” to me, but only in that comforting recorded kind of way. The voice you associate with accurate GPS directions. The voice that cuts to the chase if you can press the buttons fast enough. As a self-server I sound grumpy, but grocery shopping’s not high on my “good times” list. So a fast game’s a good game, OK? And I have a queue of people who are just like me. And that queue’s fast.

My personal rules for a successful self-diagnosis using all the tools the internet has to offer.

 Sorry if you shouted “HI!” to me on the street the other day while you were getting what looked like a yoga mat out of the back seat of your car and I didn’t immediately respond, and when I did it was only half-heartedly. I didn’t mean to be rude, but that afternoon I was recovering from GORD. You could probably tell – I mean, heck, we’re all familiar with the tell-tale signs of GORD, but in case you didn’t pick up on my ailment, that’s what was wrong with me.

 To slightly complicate the matter I also had pancreatitis, a hernia, endometriosis, and kidney stones. On top of that, I had an ulcer (or possibly several, it was hard to tell in all the confusion), lactose intolerance, appendicitis, pelvic inflammatory disease and one of the more full-on cases of menstrual cramps I’ve ever had.

 How did I have all of these things? Because I had a sore tummy, and when I went online to diagnose myself, these are the things the internet told me were wrong with me. I don’t think I’m overreacting because the website had pictures of doctors on it. I don’t know if you’ve ever decided to diagnose yourself online, but if you’re ever feeling like your day is going too well and you could do with some extreme pessimism/borderline doomsday hysteria in your life, these are the websites for you.

 We live in an incredible age of medical technology where robots are able to perform microscopic surgery our clumsy stupid giant hands could never do, nanotechnology is able to scour our veins and scrape out nasties with the ease of a five year old picking his nose, and computer programs are able to hold more medical data on them than even my dad can pretend to know. However, none of that technology seems to have made it to self-diagnosis sites on the net, which basically consist of the following algorithm:

1.     Do you hurt anywhere, inside or outside your body? If yes go to 2. If no, go to 3.

2.    You will definitely die tonight.

3.    Go to 2 anyway.

 What may have seemed 98 percent like a scab with a bit of dirt in it when you jumped online 20 minutes ago is now almost for sure the start of the first of many sores you will develop as the bubonic plague takes over your body, gradually liquefying your organs as you implode into a horrific death. But at least you looked it up and have peace of mind now right?

 I’m sure if you asked Google what the most searched-for terms were from people who had recently been on a medical-diagnosis site, it would be “low-cost funerals that still look classy” and “if I’ve had my neighbour’s drill for three years and I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten I have it, can I leave it to my kids?”

 Oh, and the worst thing you can do is read the message boards! No one ever writes, “Thought it was Crohn’s disease, but just had gas. Ha ha. Silly me. Went to bed, next day found fifty bucks, good times.” All the stories basically follow the narrative of, “so after experiencing exactly the same pain you have at this instant, I decided to go to hospital even though I thought it was an overreaction. After I awoke from surgery the doctor said my colon was one second from exploding, and the pain I was feeling is known as The Certain Death Pangs, because everyone dies from it and it also pangs. May I remind you, it’s the exact pain you’re feeling right now that has brought you to this page. But it’s up to you if you want to go to hospital. See ya.”

 I can’t tell you what I found out was actually wrong with me, due to medical privacy reasons, but I will tell you that I plan on launching a website soon named dontdrinkyoursmoothietoofastyouidiot.com.au to advice people against doing what I did. And then tell them they’re going to die, just so my website doesn’t feel left out.