I don’t usually disclosure information of quite such a personal nature. So, if you are prone to embarrassment, I give you warning to look away now.
…I can’t hold it in any longer. It’s time to come clean; to make a full confession. I feel like a cheat. I’m so ashamed…
As you know, on Sunday night I attended the AusMumpreneur Awards for 2016. I was a finalist, amongst a stellar line up of women working in sensational businesses. Sarah Morrissey from Little Rockers Radio took out the award in the Rising Star category, in which I was judged. What a terrific achievement and I wish her every success.
The awards night was the full-on gala affair. Black pants, t-shirt and cap (aka kitchen wear) just wouldn’t cut it, and so I was loaned a fabulous gown by the lovely Julie-Anne Townsend of Style Remedy. Let me tell you, Jules knows her stuff! In order to wear such a glamorous dress, I needed a new, strapless bra.
There are women who are blessed in this department: curvaceous and well, womanly. And then there are others who, at their puffed up best, resemble an ironing board. I am the latter. I was in a hurry to find an appropriate undergarment and so the only thing I could find in my size (right next to the ironing board covers) was something I disdain to call a bra. It was essentially a boob tube.
It was strapless, but that’s pretty much where its fabulousness ends. Its only redeeming characteristic was that it had padded inserts. Essentially this meant it looked more like a set of boobs when it was off me than when it was on.
I hurriedly paid and went home.
I then had the problem of combating the lack of booby-ness created by this strapless misery. For those in the know, glamorous evening gowns often come with some shapely forming around the bust area. For most this provides a little support and a lovely line to the dress. For me it provides a hole only a miracle will fill. While many fill this space with that which God gave them, I fill it with thin air. Or, on one very bad occasion, day light.
To combat the problem, I had no choice but to fill my already padded undergarments. This I achieved with another kind of undergarment, often referred to by the certain anatomy of a chicken. Except mine have a sticky backing and so are meant to stick to you to make you look like something you are not. They helped. A bit.
I am aware that ignorance is no excuse for illegality or action of a dubious nature. It’s never gone very well for Olympians, for instance. That being the case, I am at pains to point out that I was by no means trying to gain unfair advantage. The wearing of six boobs, rather than the regulation two, was the unfortunate result of my bid to make up for my genetic disadvantage. Shameful...