Good cup Bad cup

I harbor about a million pet peeves, chief among them being people who smell of nothing; not soap, or a polite deodorant, or rain. Of all the delightful scents on earth, you cannot choose to smell of nothing, it is not normal, please be a sport and go floral or musky.

Today however is dedicated to those who split their cups. I mean those whose cups overflow, because proper fitting to them is optional, and so are loose fitting cotton blouses. I say, why does the fact that you are displaying four boobs not bother you? Were you a bovine in your past life? This needs to end, and it needs to end now.

So here are two tips to help you save on the spillage and keep you boobage in place. Use them and share them, especially my sisters whose cups exceed D, I understand your struggle but believe me it can be managed.

1. Bend over
This is not a sexual innuendo, you will need to bend over and jiggle when buying a bra and wearing one for the rest of your life. I came to find out that after clipping your goods in place, you need to properly position your goodies WITHIN the allocated space ( which is the bra cup). After the bending and jiggling, stand up straight and confirm that indeed,you are not over flowing. Should there be extra boob left unattended, and looks squashed, kindly dispose of that bra BECAUSE IT DOES NOT FIT!

You need to appreciate that the unattended boob situation is not as a result of those amazing pieces called push up/ wonder bras ( and yes, the bend over procedure still applies here). The product of a wonder bra will look well rounded and happy. They will not appear pushed out and crimped, but will form well rounded delicate masses; floating globes of flesh if you will.  These are more often than not is very pleasing to the eye, I beg, you are not to confuse the two.

2. Extend, extend , extend
I gather that we of the wider girth do not always get the right cup to go with the required circumference. Which results in our already existing rolls being further subdivided into something akin to a croissant. A direct result of this forcing of issues is that your front area also suffers, with your girls not only spilling over at the top, but also at the sides near the armpits. This is beyond pitiful, but have no fear, a solution is here!

Some genius somewhere invented bra extenders! A nifty little piece of thingy that latches snugly into your bra and allows you up to an extra two inches ! Imagine that! Now your ribs can breathe easy and there is no need to add to your love handles! The extenders are discreet and come in all colors, only thing is…warn your partner, s/he may take longer than usual to unclasp… you are welcome.


So there you have it, please take care of the environment… my eyes should suffer no longer.

Go on, cup something!

Image credits.

The brief: Strut it!

You think you know, until you are shown that you don’t.

I have a confession.

I am deeply ashamed.

Long have I cherished, thrived and shamelessly embraced the thought, peddling my theory to anyone with ears.

I was by all means correct in my opinion, irrevocably above reasoning with or correction. I was never to be proven wrong, because I usually am right (call me Mrs. Smarty pants). I knew, from my observation and limited interaction, that models are the laziest crop of human beings to ever walk the earth (pun intended).

And then the truth was handed to me, in a mucus inducing type of slap in the face.
I was brought to justice, trembling in my six inch heels.

This is the genesis of my stereotype.

My mother, being the queen of glam and runner of marathons, had us watching Elsa Klench and reading magazines that had more high fashion photos than literary content from an early age. I must have watched painfully skinny girls walk around the globe, for the number of hours spent consuming all manner of designers parade the latest in fall, summer and winter collections. I knew, beyond doubt, that all “they” did was party all night, have someone dress them, slather them in makeup, and have them sashay down a runway every morning. Worse yet, they actually got paid a queens ransom to do this!

Aaaargh! Some people have it too easy!

Then came the day, when I entered the Miss Plus size Kenya pageant. Several auditions later, and I made the top 15. Then the real work (which I had not anticipated) begun. It really was very simple, until the practical’s begun.

The brief was to catwalk. That is it. Just walk like a cat. On a high wall. On a very very slim wall.

My mind accepted the challenge.
My hips sniggered and asked me to stop being silly.
My legs refused.

The thing is… I am very bow legged. So much so , that crossing my legs still leaves a yawning “O” between them. I am also flat footed, which meant the dream of legally owning a machine gun, and walking the night eliminating terror was not to be, members of the disciplined forces can stand for days and feel nothing, I cannot do a half hour.

So back to the catwalk.

Our instructors demanded that we wear double sole heels, which meant I ended up in six inchers. I thought nothing of it, until a demonstration was done on what we were to do on the cat walk. It is safe to say that my ready mind beat a hasty retreat.

“Stop swinging your arms” they said.
“Walk in a straight line” they said.
“Take smaller steps” they said.
“Your head should be last to turn” they said.
“Spin on your heels and lean back, do not fall!” they said.

In a nut shell, I was left in a heap of sweaty quivery body parts that had previously not felt so much movement.

Whatever possessed me to think that being a model was easy and for lazy people? That anyone would willingly do this for a living continues to puzzle me. Forgive me Lord!

I have found myself residing in a house that I had taken far too much pleasure pelting with stones. Put down your stones, lest you find yourself living where you despised.