Big Girls do Cry

The girls enjoy the open air. They like that fresh breeze that catches between the blouse and bra when there's a few buttons turned loose or an airy v-neck gaping. Summer is certainly upon us and I know the girls would like nothing more than to bask in those few gusts of blustery wind that should happen to get trapped beneath a breathable tee. 

Unfortunately, my two darling sweethearts are enduring an oppressively moist summer buried beneath layers upon layers of professional garb(age). 

My company holds dress code to the utmost degree of business standard. For me, this meant buying suits before leaving for Japan, as it stipulated in my contract that if I carried with me a 36D or above (sounds like some kind of weapon), I would be unable to find suitable clothing in Japan for my oh-so-busty chest.

Even in the states, finding a button-down blouse or dress shirt is difficult. I swim through the arms and have almost no shape to my torso, but still, that third or fourth button keeps a-poppin'. This means undershirts required. So, bra, undershirt, blouse. Count it, three layers in what was once a promising summer of endless tank tops and loose fitting shirts. 

Not only do the girls blister in a soggy, dank chamber of multi-layered domination, they are constantly "checked out"--and not in the most pleasant of ways.

My Shibucho, or regional director, pops over and visits every now and again. She has yet to make an appearance without commenting on my "inappropriate" professional wear.

Last week, she asked how I was doing. And then, in a tricky sort of way--kind of how you would imagine a child getting duped into abduction-- proceeded to tell me how I need to straighten my blouse to cover more of my neck. There aren't any more damn buttons, lady, and its sweltering, even with this dilapidated fan blowing chunks of dust and dead bugs into my face. 

There was nothing I could say in response to Shibucho's candid and extremely helpful fashion advice. It really broke me down for some reason. The girls were sweltering under such humid conditions and like anyone, constant heat makes you cranky. 

I cried, er should I say blubbered, for exactly 20 seconds in the bathroom stall. It was a loud burst of upset, but only for a brief moment. For some reason...maybe the heat, maybe the constant scrutiny of my chest, I just needed a quick cry. 

I guess sometimes constant attention of the girls makes them weary of even the subtle stares and glares, especially when they are concealed under a seemingly impenetrable shield of cotton. I could only convince myself to believe that big breasted employees were a novelty in Japan. And I was a force to be reckoned with.