Last year when the first lockdown in March snook up on us and smashed us over the head with a frying pan, I had to stay off work to look after the ankle biters like a lot of mums and dads. Although it was a strange time which took some getting used to, we all seemed to bed in quite nicely to lazy days of reading, avoiding housework, eating 67 times a day and loosely attempting to keep the homeschooling up and running. I stopped wearing jeans or any clothing that was tighter than a loose jogger or pyjama set, and this included my bra. Never a huge fan of the brazier anyway, this was the perfect opportunity to set fire to it and never let it near my bangers again, and that’s what happened. For 7 marvellous months my boobs swung low and free without a care in the world and without apology, so imagine my distress when come September I had to go back to work in a formal situation where the freedom of jiggling boobs and rogue nipples was strictly forbidden.
Picture this … you have made a special effort to leave your home, taking your life in your hands braving COVID to go and pay a cheque in at your local bank. You are greeted by the cashier tits first and nearly lose an eye. Probably not what most customers are looking for.
The necessity for a restrictive bra, tights and that little bitch you call a work dress now 2 sizes too small following lockdown was mandatory. I knew my waistline had expanded slightly as a lot of people’s had but I just wasn’t ready for how much. I’m now the not so proud owner of middle age spread and I don’t really know what to do about it. Ideally I’d do nothing and it will disappear on its own but that’s probably not going to happen which is why I had 2 options to choose between.
1.Purchase the second hand dress that was for sale on the works internal internet which was 10 sizes bigger than my own and had specially modified extra large sleeves. An ideal addition to accommodate the bingo wings.
2. Wear a double duvet cover.
I was beginning to think the only viable solution to escaping this fate was to fake my own death. I love work, or rather the girls at work. It’s like getting paid to go and see my friends 2 days a week but we’re not going to mention that to my manager. I have discovered though that I love home more. I like not washing myself, not wearing makeup, smelling bad without judgment and most importantly not having to wear a bra.
Letting my tarts swing and clap together at will is very liberating and not something I want to give up in a hurry. Maybe I could persuade work to introduce bra free Fridays? The only other alternative is to meet my end by being involved in a fatal boating accident (because every film I’ve ever watched involving the faking of a death ALWAYS involves a boating accident). It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, it will require some careful thought. Just know that if you see on the news that an abandoned boat has been found unmanned in the North sea in suspicious circumstances close to where a half burnt woman’s body was retrieved, that I came to a decision.