My breasts have eaten themselves alive. To be fair, they were meagre to begin with. Neither tantalizing melons nor soft pillows upon which a baby soundly slumbers. Since weaning my youngest child, they look especially pitiful. It?s hard to look away.
Our culture provides consistent advice to pregnant and postpartum women, but the body that has ceased ?producing? seems to get only mixed messages. To some, it?s a remote ruin, to be viewed (but not touched) with nostalgic curiosity. To others, it?s a damaged house undergoing a renovation of indeterminate scope. Lose the baby weight, they say, but not too much, or things will sag. Lift weights to build bone density, but try not to hurt yourself (note: you will definitely hurt yourself). Eat more plants. Eat more protein. Release those elusive pelvic floor muscles you never knew existed so that you can once again enjoy sex with the person you have no time or energy to have sex with. But also tighten them so you don?t wet your pants when you join your toddler on the trampoline. Oh, and don?t forget to get fitted for a new bra! Evidently, the internet is aware of my shrinking bustline because pop-up ads have been appearing incessantly for a new petite bra.
I was 13 when my mom took me to buy my first bra. I really didn?t need it. Skinny, long-limbed, and woefully flat-chested, I envied my buxom friends. The embroidered initials on the blouse of my Jewish day school uniform lay flat, while the second and third buttons on Lauren Ste...