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Pregnancy Week 18 - Girl Support

There have been many enlightening pregnancy experiences since I last blogged, several of which are worthy of their own entries. However, per usual, I’m short on time, so here’s the Cliff Notes version pertaining to the chest region.(If you feel this is TMI, I understand. Don’t read it. I just don’t want to sugarcoat my blog. Women need to know the truth.)


1. There is a sports bra named The Last Resort. If you are a runner who’s well endowed pre-pregnancy, you may have to order this lovely piece of – ahem – athletic lingerie. Sixteen snaps, people. That is how many fasteners this monster has, but true to the advertised word, it eliminates bounce.


2. You will have an specific moment when you realize you need The Last Resort. Mine occurred on the treadmill at week twelve. At first running was as appealing as eating a spoonful of mayonnaise. But then I turned the second trimester corner and thought, “I can still run!”


So onto the treadmill I stepped and upped the miles per hour. “This is great,” I thought. “Maybe my legs will stay thin.” That was until I noticed the guy next to me had literally stopped running to watch the show – the “Jen’s sports bra is clearly not cutting it” show. I caught sight of my freakshow in the mirror. Oh, dear. The run lasted 28 seconds.


3. Regular bras are not exempt from this process, but I was in denial until week 14 when my bra straps started talking to me. “This is far too much responsibility for us,” they pleaded. “You can only push us so far until we snap in the middle of a meeting, most likely with someone important.”


Fine. I optimistically stopped by Victoria’s Secret, knowing full well this was not the best choice for my situation. What I needed was the very largest size they carried. The ones kept at the back of the store in the bottom drawer on the right. Those bras. One style and three color options were offered. Woo-hee. I am bringing sexy back with these babies. And if I don’t need them later, I can use the cups as mixing bowls.


If the griping of all things body image is bothersome, email my Husband. The man is a saint for putting up with my constant chatter about weight gain, unwieldy boobs, too tight clothes and the like. Of course, he’s the one that got me into this situation, so he really has no choice. Forget the saint comment.

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