I am done, superdone, done x 107 with breastfeeding. (Daphne is somewhat less done, but I'm sure we'll come to an understanding eventually.) And I had forgotten how, even with the once or twice a day we were still nursing, my body was firmly in Boobies Mode. And then I was preovulatory, so that helped keep things, you know, pumped. Ripe. Voluptuous.
Having ovulated (fun souvenir of PCOS: extremely uncomfortable ovulation! Every time! Just like borderline OHSS!), I went to sleep one night and woke up with NO BOOBS. Well, not literally, but I put on my smallest-cup bra, the one that always made things bulge out in a most alarming fashion, and there it sat, a foam shell of its former overstuffed self. The adequately-sized bras could hold a spare tangerine in each cup. I put on my running fleece, the one I could only zip if I had on my SuperUltraMegaSmashYou sports bra, and...well, I look like I'm wearing that bra. BUT I AM NOT.
I don't really mind; I will once again be able to find bras in stores (ever try to find a 32F nursing bra in Target?) and I can wear modestly low-cut tops without appearing to have ordered everything from the Victoria's Secret catalog. I will continue to wear the SmashYou bra while running, because while reduced in volume, the bust in question still possesses most of its former surface area, if you follow me. We are not sixteen years old, here.