Being someone who likes to call herself a “writer” and also someone who lives in Paris, I thought I’d go ahead and make my cliché status official by signing up for a writing workshop at a coffee place right around the corner from Hemingway’s house.
And not just any coffee place– the carrot cake from heaven place. The price for the 7 week class includes tea and a slice of cake at each meeting. How could I not sign up?
Anyway, Wednesday was class #2. It’s a really interesting group of women, young and old, from all over the place, from all different backgrounds. Everyone seems nice and sane so far. The teacher is a lovely Welsh woman who happens to also be pregnant, and during a break in conversation she asked how I was feeling.
But before I could really answer, the rather forward Irish lady at the end of the table leaned over and said, “Dear god, are you pregnant too? I was wondering why your boobs were so huge!”
And as I sat there speechless for a beat, another woman chimed in. “Yeah, they are really big.”
I’m not usually accustomed to near strangers commenting on the size of my chest. But to my classmates’ credit, my bazooms are huge. Like, they were pretty big to begin with, and now thanks to the miracle of life we’ve leapt past Pam Anderson territory and landed at the circus big. I should be in a tent out back with the bearded lady charging admission for a peek.
And sadly, I knew this day would come. Ever since the wide-eyed stares in the middle school locker room. Ever since I was asked to be the mascot of the Bombs. Ever since my doctor advised me to invest in more heavy-duty brassieres to avoid becoming a hunchback. Ever since then, I knew that if I ever got pregnant, I’d have to hire a midget to walk in front of me with his arms up, holding my boulders in place.
Because you know what’s harder to find than a midget willing to serve as a human bra? A bra that actually fits my lady bits.
It was hard enough in the States when these things were smaller. But here I am in Paris, a city filled with a million beautiful lingerie shops, not one of which seems to carry anything bigger than a C cup. Even before the pregnancy boob fairy roughed me up I found it difficult. I once pleaded with a sales lady to help me find my size, only to be met with a look of horror and a brusque “N’existe pas!“
And after I nearly blinded a woman on the other side of the waiting room when my coat button popped off from the sheer stress of holding my chest in, I decided I needed to act fast. So I went home and found Linda the Bra Lady online, and ordered up some of the biggest boobie slings I’ve ever seen.
Did you know that cups come in size FF? As in, W. T. F? F!
Or how about G? As in, Good god how are you standing upright?
Well, I’m here to tell you they do. And like many aspects of being pregnant, it ain’t pretty. I’m also still holding out hope for a good, strong Parisian midget, so if you know one, please do let me know.
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Pronunciation: sootee-ehn gorje
Definition: Brassiere. Bra. Boulder holder. As in,
“The cup size of my soutien-gorge is bigger than my head. And I have a big head.”
Hey, want more boob vocabulary? I’ve got you covered.