Avoiding Big Boob Saggage Baggage on the Run
By stephaniechivis on May 01, 2014
Not that I'll consider a return trip to the massive mammaries Doc again but I do want to take measures to counteract the ill effects on my beamers that running creates with its continual up-and-down movement. I also want to educate other runners with a desire to keep their chick parts in tact as well. I want to read all the research ever researched on whether or not running exacerbates sagging if done regularly like every day for 17+ hours a week.
As of now, and Dr. Dweck's work aside, research is limited on this topic. However, much blame can be placed on running as a major cause of boob droopage since it involves lots of repetitive up-and-down and side-to-side movement of the breasts. All that figure eight-shaped movement appears to be one of many factors that can lead to sagging. But before tossing out your running kicks and signing up for yoga, hear the chick Doctor out. Dr. Dweck says it’s difficult to determine the extent of how much running is involved in the droop process because of genetic and physiological factors. She doesn't have to tell me about preggers boobs, genetic boobs, PMS breasts and Oh-sweet-Lawd-where-do-I-begin boobs.
Ever since I weaned my last child, something in my sore, swollen PMSy scoops of flesh goes hay wire once a month and the boobie hormones need to be tweaked. That’s when I want to set ant hills on fire with hot grits in the Florida sun and knock down owners of dogs without leashes. My sore, PMSy breasts make me both mad and sad at the same time, which means that even though I will derive crazy pleasure from knocking a walker out from under somebody’s dirty old grandpa with my bloated bosoms, I’ll cry about it later.
However even through bouts of bloated-breast infant-feeding and PMS, I've noticed my male counterpart NOT noticing any changes in their shape or size. I think when boobs concern men all pairs are just fine except for the extra saggy ones hanging 6 inches inferior to the top set of abdominals. Regardless, I'm thankful most men don't have a pair of their own breasts, because if they did they'd never leave the house. They'd just sit home all day and play with them. And if they did this I wonder what the odds are that they awaken in the morning feeling bloated and find themselves on the prowl for someone to make them feel pretty for a minute. Do men do that, too? You think they stand in front of the mirror pulling their boobs up under their necks so they can see how they'd look if they had a breast lift? Is it possible they sometimes push their boobs together and ask their wife if they'd look better if they had them done? Could it be that men are more like women with boobs than women with boobs have ever thought they might be?
via VH1.com "Best Week Ever"
Matching body types are strong compatibility indicators.
While pushing my boobs together in my high impact sports bra this morning, I reluctantly found that I could be 3/4 of an inch away from the designated sag marker near the top of my abs if I don't take precautionary measures soon. I've known this sag effect was coming for some time as most of the time my cupcakes just feel too bouncy, on the verge of becoming too floppy and definitely not sweater worthy. I’d get brand new elastic fake ones shaped into perfect round globes but my selfish family wants me to spend my money on food and electricity and stuff.
So what does Dr. Dweck recommend? She says to keep running.
Despite my misgivings I'm gonna try and do it because I always do what people in white coats tell me to do. That's why I buy stuff from the makeup counter lady and why the seafood manager could identify my boobs in a police lineup. Not that my boobs have ever been in a police lineup or that I would ever flash a man cutting up cobia but there's always tomorrow.
So to sum up the Doc's findings, the health benefits far outweigh the possibility of a little extra breast stretchiness so we shouldn't worry much about saggage of big baggage.
So don't worry.
How hard is that? Come on people. Telling me not to worry is like putting a Double Decker Oatmeal Cream Pie in front of me and telling me not to microwave it ’til the Little Debbie head pops off the package before I devour it.