I never liked them anyway*

So why are you here? I'm hoping that you're interested in my story, or in hearing what my experience was so that you can make better sense of your own. Possibly you know somebody who's been diagnosed with breast cancer, or have ended here by some happy algorithmic chance. It's good to see you, whatever the reason. Please do let me know in the comments how you've found me, and your thoughts on the blog in its infancy.

A brief and relatively employment friendly scroll through a social media of your choice, will likely bring up comics or graphics relating in some way to the deep joy which can be achieved when a woman returns into the privacy of her own home and can take off her bra. There's truth in that, as any form of constraint is bound to be less comfortable than being free. I recall the experience well. However, that's not to say that there aren't positives to bra wearing. If you have to move around a lot, or at all with speed, they're a lot more comfortable than not wearing one.

Before my diagnosis, I admit I wasn't really much of a fan of my breasts.
They were one size too large to be able to buy nice pretty bras for low prices, which left me with the choice of either wearing cheap(ish), industrial looking bras, or being bankrupt, but having nice underwear. I opted for the majority being RSJ supported horrors, and a nice one for if I went out in the city, and was worried I might get hit by a bus, or lucky when out on a date. I was never happy about this, they also, irrespective of how much you pay, wear out. When that happens, you can be sure that the bra that fitted well, that took you so long to find, is no longer made by the manufacturer. This means you have to start looking for a new favourite all over again. A time consuming and unattractive prospect, for me at least.

My breasts being relatively sizeable, and my mindset fairly sporty, I also disliked the way they hindered me playing sport, or running up stairs, or dancing. Women learn to run in that style with their arms across their chest, as though constantly disapproving of events as they dash through them. It's not very efficient, but it's more effective than being knocked unconscious.

They also got in the way when trying to buy shirts, my options being to wear something at least a size too big, like an officewear version of Wee Willie Winkie, or to tape my button gaps shut, and pray that the adhesive held, because my shirts would gape at the point of most tension otherwise. Nobody wants to be arrested for manslaughter because your button just shot that guy in the office as it couldn't take the pressure when you reached for a file.

*They did, I concede, look good in some dresses. Plunging V neck dress? Yes indeed. 1950's high neckline? I was instantly transformed into some matronly tank. That'd be a no. They filled my swimming costume, and forgave me putting on a little weight around the midriff, as they definitely stuck further out than the rest of me. They were sexy and womanly, filled with nerve endings.

And therein lies the rub. Day to day, I didn't like them, but they weren't all bad. My initial thoughts were to say to folk "I never liked them anyway," but with the passing of time, I've learnt that I have to acknowledge the good things that I have indeed lost. Overall, of course things are much better than they could be for me; I do miss having somewhere to rest my coffee that doesn't make me look like I'm slouching though.