I've got a Secret -- Finally!
Wednesday Weigh In Numbers first: 214, fat % 45.9 Down 3. Lost the two from Turkey week, plus another one. Told you I'd bounce back during stuff your face season!
Anyway, it's the holiday dress up season, and I was happy to find a few smashingly casual but low-cut tops to pair with festive bottoms for holiday parties and such, that FIT. You would think I'd have learned by now that big tits are an ASSET, but when you've been as fat and as down on yourself as I had been, you don't think anything can save you, and the "Gee, I should show off a bit of this DD-clevage, for it is considered sex-ay" never passes through your head. So I had this epiphany that for the holiday season, even though my belly and ass aren't where I want them to be, if I simply call attention to my jugs, perhaps people would overlook the fact that I still have a BMI in the mid 30s.
Problem is, all my bras do not support a low cut blouse. They're fat girl's bras. You know -- there's a minimum of six, count 'em, six hook-and-eyes in the back, and the part where it crosses your heart is well above your heart. They're comfy, the're functional. They hold up the jugs. They're practically sports bras. But I call them Birth Control Bras. They are not the sort of bras you let peek out from underneath a low-cut holiday top.
So I drove out to the mall to get myself some low-cut bras with which to wear plunging holiday necklines. I'm almost walking into Cacique (which is French for "Lane Bryant's Answer to Victoria's Secret") and suddenly I spot Victoria's Secret directly across the mall. Do I risk it? Do I walk in there and see if I've lost enough weight to be an Angel, and risk the esteem-killer of having to walk out dejectedly because I'm still too fat? Because dammit, I can buy my pants at Old Navy now, I can order online from Eddie Bauer, and most of all, I am through with Lane Bryant, god bless 'em, but I.Am.Through.With.Them.
Fuck riskiness. I've got to know if I can do this. I dart across the mall to VS.
I'm not even going to try to look on the counters. I learned a long time ago to head straight for the drawers. Even when I lose the weight, I'm still going to be a D, if not the DD I am now. They only display the itty bitty little bras for 34AA girls right in front, draped on those padded pink hangers. I see they have exactly what I need, the "Angels" bra that pushes up, but plunges deep. Yeah, there's a little padding on the sides, like I really need more volume, but that's for shaping. OK, Perfect. In black and fleshtone lace, so that it's pretty even if it does peek through. And I'm hoping I can pull off a 38DD. Would that be large enough? Cup size is never going to shrink, but would a 38 make it all the way around, without cutting into my back and make that awful No-Really-This-Is-Just-A-Particularly-Bloated-Period dent in my skin? I need a fitting room. No, I don't need assistance. I just need you to unlock the door, and leave me to my own devices.
Its been a long time since I've been able, physically and emotionally, to set foot in a VS, and a lot's changed. It's gotten a little trashier, and maybe that's what the market wants, but the nice thing I always liked about VS was that it wasn't Frederick's. The name even implied that this was a place meant for a queen to procure her intimate apparel, not some tacky trollop looking to buy some crotchless undies. And here you are in these fitting rooms, with the hot pink lettering on the mirror that says "STRIP." Oh great. This is so not me. Is this a two-way mirror? Jesus.
But suddenly, none of that mattered, because, honeys, IT FIT!!!!!!!!!! No cupth runneth over, no straps digging into the shoulder, no six hooks and eyes in the back, no back band cutting off the circulation to my spine. It fit, perfectly, pushing up and readying my boobies for some Elizabethan holiday cheer. Oh, this is soooooo ME! The old V'ron, that is.
I let out a little yelp of glee, and skipped, skipped I tell you out of the fitting room. And I'll take this in solid black too and, oh, I'm going to need one in white, la de da, and I'll need these "full coverage" bras for work in tan and black and navy, and ohmygod will you look at this fabulous one in pink and brown and blue polka dots! And matching polka dot panties that aren't butt floss! Yessssss!
So the real test is going public. Do I have the moxie to go out with a plunging neckline and a pushup bra? Because moxie is what makes the difference between a pathetic slut and a badass buxom blonde. And where better to test this out but Trash Fest? This way, I can get away with being a little trashy, and if it's not working, I can just plead "costume" and go back to turtlenecks, sports bras, and maybe a little rhinestone pin for the holidays. I arrive good 'n' early to get used to showing this much skin. Mind you, the shirt I'm wearing is long sleeved and I'm wearing black trousers and its topped off with a beat up old fedora. I'm making it absolutely clear where the center of attention should be, and it wasn't the red lipstick I chose to slap on at the last minute. But I'm wearing my contact lenses, makeup, a spritz of hair spray, yes, I'm pulling out all the badass power woman moxie stops. I'm walking tall like I just bought the remake rights to The Bliss of Mrs. Blossom. Amazing what the right Bustenhalter will do for you.
Also good 'n' early is a family friend, who often joins us to watch the Daytona 500, and never minces his words about anything. (You might be asking, "But V'ron, what of Brian? What did he have to say?" Well of course he told me I looked great. He has to. He's my husband, and he will tell me I look great if he knows what's good for him.) But back to the family friend. He normally sees Frumpy Fat V'ron, in all but a plaid mumu and curlers.
"You're looking good tonight," he says to my breasts. 20 years ago, V'ron the feminazi would have indignantly retorted, "Uh, they don't talk, you sexist pig-dog!" But that was then and this is now. Instead the next paragraph reads as follows:
"Why, thank you," my breasts replied brightly in a perky voice. "You know, I figured that if I showed a little valley, nobody would notice the mountain that is my ass."
"Not really paying attention to anything else," he said, eyes still not meeting mine.
"Good. Mission accomplished. Appreciate the input."
Anyway, it's the holiday dress up season, and I was happy to find a few smashingly casual but low-cut tops to pair with festive bottoms for holiday parties and such, that FIT. You would think I'd have learned by now that big tits are an ASSET, but when you've been as fat and as down on yourself as I had been, you don't think anything can save you, and the "Gee, I should show off a bit of this DD-clevage, for it is considered sex-ay" never passes through your head. So I had this epiphany that for the holiday season, even though my belly and ass aren't where I want them to be, if I simply call attention to my jugs, perhaps people would overlook the fact that I still have a BMI in the mid 30s.
Problem is, all my bras do not support a low cut blouse. They're fat girl's bras. You know -- there's a minimum of six, count 'em, six hook-and-eyes in the back, and the part where it crosses your heart is well above your heart. They're comfy, the're functional. They hold up the jugs. They're practically sports bras. But I call them Birth Control Bras. They are not the sort of bras you let peek out from underneath a low-cut holiday top.
So I drove out to the mall to get myself some low-cut bras with which to wear plunging holiday necklines. I'm almost walking into Cacique (which is French for "Lane Bryant's Answer to Victoria's Secret") and suddenly I spot Victoria's Secret directly across the mall. Do I risk it? Do I walk in there and see if I've lost enough weight to be an Angel, and risk the esteem-killer of having to walk out dejectedly because I'm still too fat? Because dammit, I can buy my pants at Old Navy now, I can order online from Eddie Bauer, and most of all, I am through with Lane Bryant, god bless 'em, but I.Am.Through.With.Them.
Fuck riskiness. I've got to know if I can do this. I dart across the mall to VS.
I'm not even going to try to look on the counters. I learned a long time ago to head straight for the drawers. Even when I lose the weight, I'm still going to be a D, if not the DD I am now. They only display the itty bitty little bras for 34AA girls right in front, draped on those padded pink hangers. I see they have exactly what I need, the "Angels" bra that pushes up, but plunges deep. Yeah, there's a little padding on the sides, like I really need more volume, but that's for shaping. OK, Perfect. In black and fleshtone lace, so that it's pretty even if it does peek through. And I'm hoping I can pull off a 38DD. Would that be large enough? Cup size is never going to shrink, but would a 38 make it all the way around, without cutting into my back and make that awful No-Really-This-Is-Just-A-Particularly-Bloated-Period dent in my skin? I need a fitting room. No, I don't need assistance. I just need you to unlock the door, and leave me to my own devices.
Its been a long time since I've been able, physically and emotionally, to set foot in a VS, and a lot's changed. It's gotten a little trashier, and maybe that's what the market wants, but the nice thing I always liked about VS was that it wasn't Frederick's. The name even implied that this was a place meant for a queen to procure her intimate apparel, not some tacky trollop looking to buy some crotchless undies. And here you are in these fitting rooms, with the hot pink lettering on the mirror that says "STRIP." Oh great. This is so not me. Is this a two-way mirror? Jesus.
But suddenly, none of that mattered, because, honeys, IT FIT!!!!!!!!!! No cupth runneth over, no straps digging into the shoulder, no six hooks and eyes in the back, no back band cutting off the circulation to my spine. It fit, perfectly, pushing up and readying my boobies for some Elizabethan holiday cheer. Oh, this is soooooo ME! The old V'ron, that is.
I let out a little yelp of glee, and skipped, skipped I tell you out of the fitting room. And I'll take this in solid black too and, oh, I'm going to need one in white, la de da, and I'll need these "full coverage" bras for work in tan and black and navy, and ohmygod will you look at this fabulous one in pink and brown and blue polka dots! And matching polka dot panties that aren't butt floss! Yessssss!
So the real test is going public. Do I have the moxie to go out with a plunging neckline and a pushup bra? Because moxie is what makes the difference between a pathetic slut and a badass buxom blonde. And where better to test this out but Trash Fest? This way, I can get away with being a little trashy, and if it's not working, I can just plead "costume" and go back to turtlenecks, sports bras, and maybe a little rhinestone pin for the holidays. I arrive good 'n' early to get used to showing this much skin. Mind you, the shirt I'm wearing is long sleeved and I'm wearing black trousers and its topped off with a beat up old fedora. I'm making it absolutely clear where the center of attention should be, and it wasn't the red lipstick I chose to slap on at the last minute. But I'm wearing my contact lenses, makeup, a spritz of hair spray, yes, I'm pulling out all the badass power woman moxie stops. I'm walking tall like I just bought the remake rights to The Bliss of Mrs. Blossom. Amazing what the right Bustenhalter will do for you.
Also good 'n' early is a family friend, who often joins us to watch the Daytona 500, and never minces his words about anything. (You might be asking, "But V'ron, what of Brian? What did he have to say?" Well of course he told me I looked great. He has to. He's my husband, and he will tell me I look great if he knows what's good for him.) But back to the family friend. He normally sees Frumpy Fat V'ron, in all but a plaid mumu and curlers.
"You're looking good tonight," he says to my breasts. 20 years ago, V'ron the feminazi would have indignantly retorted, "Uh, they don't talk, you sexist pig-dog!" But that was then and this is now. Instead the next paragraph reads as follows:
"Why, thank you," my breasts replied brightly in a perky voice. "You know, I figured that if I showed a little valley, nobody would notice the mountain that is my ass."
"Not really paying attention to anything else," he said, eyes still not meeting mine.
"Good. Mission accomplished. Appreciate the input."
Comments
Keep it up!