I have digressed

But the wheels are back on and so are my boobs

Thank you for reading this issue of The Middle! I’ve had an unplanned winter hiatus of sorts but I miss this space and sharing a little bit of myself with the world. Next week, I’m launching a new issue called ‘Medium’, where once a month, I’ll be discussing something I’ve read or watched in detail and with the usual chaos and (hopefully) humour. I hope you’ll stick around; there’s some really good shit coming. For now, enjoy the latest selection of my thoughts, feelings, etc. Sian x

Thoughts

• Okay, so I haven’t listened to Brat (it’s on the list) but I have listened to Katy Perry’s new song, Woman’s World, and wow it’s not good. I’ve been seeing all the incessant marketing and commentary around it and likely had already formed a somewhat negative opinion of it, but I gave it a crack and everything they say is true. The song/video/lyrics are too cringe, too 2016 and too forced. She looks great but even the ‘empowered’ flesh baring feels contrived - we’ve all seen an ass, likely too many at this point. Already, I can barely remember how the song sounds and I listened to it yesterday.

• Sorry but I couldn’t go past Blake Lively and Gigi Hadid doing high fashion superhero cosplay during my mindless scrolling this week. I get they’re there to support the dudes, have a major fash moment etc etc but we’re firmly in Halloween territory here and frankly, I expect better from them both. Grade: C-

• Staggered that Nara Smith’s (Gen Z tradwife) TikTok video of her husband concocting homemade sunscreen has over 19 million views. Praying that 18.99 million of them are curious onlookers who wouldn’t even consider doing this but just in case anyone needs the message reinforced, HOMEMADE SUNSCREEN IS UNSAFE. BUY SOME PROPER NIVEA SHIT, PLEASE.

• I can’t believe that after my unintended winter hiatus from The Middle that my home reno is still fucking going. I’ve had more hurdles to overcome than an Olympic sprinter and more people traipsing through my house than the Vatican at Christmas. But the end is nigh!!!

• Need to end here: Daisy Edgar-Jones is filling the press tour fashion void that has been left by Zendaya and I am lapping them up because her stylist is killing it. Daisy’s looks from her Twisters promotion are weirdly making me want to watch the movie?? Nothing to do with Glen Powell. Or the actual movie.

• Thoughts were a bit aggressive this week, were they not?

Feelings

BOOBS

I stare at my reflection, once again feeling the pinch and squeeze of displeasure grip me. I’m in the change room at Uniqlo, trying on several different knits, all a shade variation on the favoured aesthetic of our time: ‘neutrals’ to some, ‘dirt’ to others. They don’t really work with my complexion, I’ve known this for years but jewel tones, which really do work with my complexion, are a bit too 2007 for retail stores to capture the mass market. 

I’ve pulled on a chocolate brown crew neck knit and as I’m guiding the fabric down my torso and settling it at my waist, I have a moment where I think, Okay, this is looking promising!! Until I gaze upon the one part of my anatomy that seems to delineate so unforgivingly between the past and present versions of myself. The body parts that so clearly mark the eras BC (before children) and AC (after children): my boobs. 

My BC boobs were magnificent. I loved them. They were a big part of me and my sexuality. I loved that as a D cup with a narrow chest (I’m an asshole, I know), they looked incredible in and out of a bra. I loved being able to take my bra off at the end of the day and them barely succumbing to the force of gravity. I loved how high and perky they were, how if I ever felt a bit bloated or uncomfortable with other parts of my body, a great outfit to show off my tits instantly restored my self esteem. I knew when men (and women) would stare at them. So it is quite ridiculous and really very cruel, in a way, how much these two lumpy protrusions of flesh have had such a grip on my sense of self.

When I became pregnant, I couldn’t believe how swollen they became, marvelling at the rate my body was developing things like milk ducts and extra tissue to support life. Then my son was born and the rockmelons that accompany early breastfeeding came with him. I was more fascinated with my body than ever. Utterly in awe of how these hyper-sexualised bags of skin and blood and muscle and gland and flesh could now produce food to sustain a life. I didn’t think back then they would really change all that much once I stopped breastfeeding. My nipples were bigger, yes, and they sagged ever so slightly more, but I still felt pretty good about them and therefore good about myself. It was in this murky postpartum-but-still-breastfeeding phase that I carried the illusion that they would revert back to somewhat ‘normal’ once I had my body returned to me. My friends had told me they did, albeit slightly lopsided, so held fast to this hope and went on.

But I had not yet fully entered the AC boob stage. 

I got there eventually and god was it a series of slow shocks. The boobs deflated. They sagged. My nipples remained large. I began to feel shit about myself, avoiding looking at them, and soon my entire body, in the mirror whilst getting dressed or after a shower. I ignored half of my wardrobe, certain that I would look terrible in all of the clothes I used to love wearing with my boobs. When I bought new bras after I finished breastfeeding, I felt disheartened yet again because they hadn’t actually decreased in size at all, they were just a slightly deflated, floppy version of my breastfeeding F cup. 

I was grieving. When so many pieces of your life fall back into place AC or you reshape and reforge old fragments into something new to fit this new life, I didn’t want to bring my boobs with me. I refused to accept it. I’d done fuck all with my grief and let it sit there.

I settled. I wore the enormous bras (a single cup almost eclipsed my face, no joke) and I would occasionally try on clothing and attempt to accept my chest for what it was. Every time I did, I sensed the shift in my mental chatter, the frustration and self-criticism. I could feel the pressure of my lips mashing together in anger, the burn of tears at my eyes. It was disorienting; the oscillation between self-blame and the desire to gently grieve my BC pectoral perk. 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I walked out of Uniqlo with a few items for my toddler and more collected shards of anger and resignation for myself. I wandered through the shopping centre and thought of the memes you see online reminding Mum’s that they don’t need a new outfit for their toddler but rather new bras for themselves. I thought of this as I walked towards David Jones and as I entered the store, my eyes seeking the black and white overhead signs pointing to the lingerie section, and almost without breaking my internal focus from the internal image of the haggard, braless mother, felt my feet stop in front of a glossy acrylic counter, asking the ladies there for a bra fitting. 

I wasn’t entirely convinced it was a good idea, wondering if I’d set myself up for disappointment again. But as I explained my hideous bra situation to the woman helping me, she agreed that yes, I wasn’t wearing a supportive or properly fitted bra and that she absolutely had options for me.

It only took two attempts and my Fairy Godmother of Frill had found me a bra that make me stop and really look at my reflection. Look at myself with appreciation instead of disgust, on the verge of physically cringing. There’s a familiar tingle to what I used to get, an emotional flashback to my BC era. I started to feel more confident and another assistant joined us on the hunt for more over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. I soon had three pairs gathered that I was certain to buy in multiple colours, and then found myself asking for something sexier. I could feel excitement building within myself, a newfound confidence in my body. I was standing up straighter, shoulders back and chin lifted, pride evident in that small, hideously illuminated change room (IYKYK - DJ’s changing rooms are notoriously traumatising). 

I walk out with six pairs of bras. I am pulling my card out to pay and find myself oversharing with one of the beautiful women who helped me. I hear myself tell her that I think I’d been feeling shit about myself and my boobs because of my old bras and then I begin crying at the counter in front of her. She nods in understanding, tells me gets it, happy to have been able to help me so much. I sniffle pathetically and retreat with my scraps of lace that have replaced the jagged shards.

I cried again that night when I told my husband what happened. But I smiled when I ripped the tags off of the bras, proudly packing them into my wardrobe, my clothing options magically reopening themselves to me once again, a hidden door unlocked.

I undressed for a shower and this time I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror, naked, and thought: God, you have amazing tits!

I did not look away.

Etc

READ - The Alternatives by Caoilinn Hughes

The Alternatives is Irish author Caoilinn Hughe’s new novel about four sisters reconnecting after the eldest up and leaves her life with no warning. On the surface, you do get this incredible tale of the relationships between these women but the book is brimming with undercurrents of trauma, motherhood, grief, loss, chronic health and the climate crisis.

This books is quite unlike anything I’ve ever read before, both in structure and story. I started it thinking I was going to be whacked with a lot of words on climate science and it would feel dense and hard to wade through but the way Hughes’ tackles this, and other meaty topics (umm, philosophy?) in her book is so well-balanced with tangible, real conversations between her characters and so much Irish humour. I could not stop cackling through the book, so much so I could hear the characters speaking in their accents and calling each other eejits. It’s intimidating how good this book is. Highly recommended reading.

BUY - Loose Straight Jeans by Cotton On

My good friend recommended these to me after she went on a literal wild internet goose chase after spotting a pic of someone wearing them during a late-night insta scroll. Many days and 5689 denim websites visited later, she tracked them down and then message me with many exclamation points!!!! endorsing their excellence. Naturally, I got a pair to try after that glowing report and have to agree: these are some of the most underrated jeans on the market and I’m still shocked as I write this. These jeans are so comfortable, super versatile and do not sag or give you a nappy bum after two hours or wear and are such a good price ($60 but I got them for $40 here!)!

LISTEN - What does J.Lo Actually Want? by Culture Study Podcast

This podcast never misses. Every episode they drop is on a topic I never thought I needed in my life until I see it in my podcast feed and I get so excited to listen to it. On one of their recent episodes, they discuss the current iteration of J.Lo’s career and creative endeavours and how she is maybe, actually more confused in her professional and personal identity than ever.

ACboobs4eva,

Sian x