Tag Archives: dirty thirties

Filling in the hourglass – the bust movement

What am I going to do with these puppies? No, I’m not talking about my pets – I’m talking about my breasts. I swear they’ve grown in size … again! Just last year, after reading an interesting article relating to the fact that the majority of women wear the wrong bra size, I decided to have my bust measurements taken. I was literally gob-smacked: I was no longer a modest size 36 B, but rather an intimidating size 36 D. I was convinced the spaced-out shop attendant had gotten it all wrong. So I marched off to a lingerie boutique to have my measurements taken again. This time, when she told me I was a 36 D, I had to face the truth: I’ve hit the thirties buffet.

It’s my own personal term for when a woman has completely lost that girly body in preparation for babies. Whether a woman wants to have a child or not, we cannot flip Mother Nature the bird. With or without our consent, our bodies will become more curvaceous in celebration of that fantastic phenomenon called “fertility”.

I can lament forever on the fact that I was a lanky size eight in my early to mid twenties, but alas, those days are a distant, rather pleasant, memory. In my frank opinion – and trust me, I have lots of opinions – the stereotypical woman has several milestones in body shape changes. The first significant change is at the age of 25 when the child bearing hips first make their debut. The second significant change comes at the age of thirty. Let’s not even go near the topic of cellulite, stretch marks and the rest of the goodie bag that comes with this landmark!

Now, as I’m sitting at the mid-thirty mark, my dimensions have taken on more of an hourglass formation, and my breasts have joined the party and upped the stakes. After last year’s growth spurge, I think the girls are planning a coup. This morning, while dressing for work, my husband lay in bed transfixed by them. “Wow, they’re massive” he exclaimed as I shouldered my boulders and coaxed them into a bra.

“Please, oh please”, I’m silently praying, “Let them not be a double-D”. Surely I need something to look forward to as I hurtle towards the next marker: the big scary 40?

Dirty thirties: women’s sexual revolution?

There must be something wrong with me! What other conclusion can I draw? I was sitting at a busy intersection on my way to work when a Suzuki bike pulled up alongside my car. I’ve grown up around motorcycles – in fact, I was riding on one before I ever drove in a car! My dad was a BMW motorbike enthusiast who spend every waking moment of his spare time re-building, tinkering and tweaking bikes. So the fact that I can’t tell you what model of Suzuki bike this was, only that the tank was a metallic midnight blue, should prove that my attention was elsewhere directed to the rider’s yummy butt in tight blue jeans.

Besides drooling over the butts of random bikers, I’ve found myself more and more enamoured with the form of the male species. Not that I wasn’t before of course, but lately I feel like a horny teenager who doesn’t quite know how to handle her raging hormones.

Just the other night my husband and I were watching some army documentary on TV. The story follows a group of UK infantry recruits as they embark on a rigorous 12-week training programme in preparation for deployment in Afghanistan. Let me clarify: this is a group of scrawny, lily-white youngsters, most of whom look too young to even be shaving! As their combat training advances, these young guys really start to buff-up. Eventually, over my “oohs” and “aahs” at the growing six-packs and bicep muscles, my husband paused the programme playback to give me a rather stern look in silent warning to keep my opinions to myself.

There’s something to be said about a woman in her thirties (they don’t call it the dirty or naughty thirties without reason). I’m at the age where I’m no longer shy to talk about sex. I’ve made peace with my size 12 figure, and I know exactly what I want and need in the bedroom. I like sex, and right now my libido is at an all time high. My poor husband even has to hide his private bits and bobs in case my sex drive kicks into overdrive and I ambush him in the bathroom.

I honestly thought that a man would be overjoyed at the prospect of his wife wanting sex 24/7, but, as I’m politely told, that’s not always the case. So, while I allow myself to dream of steamy and x-rated encounters, I’m considering the option of a really good vibrator ;)

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