A truly disturbing account of what it's like to get a spray tan when your boobs are enormous.

Having big boobs is much like having siblings – you didn’t have a say in their existence and they get in the way of activities, yet sometimes they come in handy.

If you’re one of those people who is blessed in the chest, so to speak, then you’ll know what it’s like to navigate the world with a Plus Two always leading the way.

It means accidentally rolling over in bed in the middle of the night and feeling a sensation akin to straddling two bloated wombats. It means not being able to strap yourself into the safety harness that’s standing between you and certain death on roller coasters. Or owning a Burn Book solely dedicated to strapless dresses and all who champion them.

But even if you leave your home each day with your boobs strapped to your chest with the same level of force afforded to Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs (we're talking two bras here), there is one tricky situation in which they must be left untamed. Free to wreak havoc like two fleshy Godzillas on a rampage through New York City.

I’m talking, of course, about the perilous journey that comes with getting a spray tan when you’re a woman with larger breasts.

Now, if you were to ask me what my own bra size is, I would be at somewhat of a loss. Human mathematics have not yet evolved to a level where they could calculate such a number, but it’s safe to say they would be classified as immense, gargantuan and behemothic.

Unfortunately, I’m a woman who avoids the sun like anti-vaxxers avoid common sense, but who still wants a bit of brown sheen across her skin at all times. 

And so I often find myself standing topless in a small airless room while a stranger spritzes me with a cold vat of odd-smelling chemicals.

Due to the sizeable nature of my boobs, I first require a few moments of privacy from my tanning lady, behind a locked door. This is in case an unsuspecting passerby accidentally catches a glimpse of me mid-bra removal and starts to think Quasimodo is in town and prefers black lace undergarments.

And, dear reader, let it be known that depending on the style of dress I'm wearing, I'm sometimes forced to wear not one... but two bras at once, in order to keep my passengers safely secured in their assigned seats.

Therefore I find myself having to wrestle out of Olsen twin levels of bra torture in order to simply become topless.

By this stage, my innocent spray tanner is beginning to wonder if I have succumbed to some sort of head injury because the door has remained closed for an extended period of time. She finally sings out "all ready?", while lightly jiggling the handle to gain access.

And even though I'm still hyperventilating from the strain of bra removal, I have to let her in.

There are about to be no secrets between us, yet I still attempt to cover my upper body with one arm as I shuffle forward to unlock the door.

Which is about as successful as attempting to cover Russia with a napkin.

Now, there are only two situations in life where I would normally allow myself to stand topless with my arms over my head for an extended period of time.

The first is if I were to be innocently taking a shower and the spider who likes to hang out in my bathroom was to suddenly pull a knife on me, causing me to assume a submissive position.

The second is during a tan and it's all fine and dandy until the spray tanning lady suddenly stops and shakes the gun in a way that fills my brain with horror. All because I'm pretty sure the amount she had allocated to covering one entire human body has now been wasted on a single nipple.

But instead of making it awkward, we both evoke the code usually reserved for tense family dinners and avoid the issue altogether until she tells me to turn to the side for the next phase of spraying.

There was one fateful day where, in my haste to have the spray tan over and done with, I turned so quickly to the side that my breasts whipped through the air with such force that if they had made contact with the spray tanner's head she would have been decapitated.

Midway through every tan comes the tense moment when the tanner asks if I would like to be sprayed 'under the breasts', signaling for me to lift them into the air. But since they weigh the same amount as a small child (holding dumbells) I lack the physical strength required to hoist them up, and so I always decline that offer.

After the last inch of my body has been covered with brown goo, I am left to plot a plan of escape from the salon to my home, since I cannot wear a bra(s) while the tan settles.

My usual plan of attack is to cover the front of my body with the longest scarf known to mankind and throw myself into the back of an Uber with such urgent force that the driver will assume I am on a life-or-death mission for some sort of government agency.

While spray tanning missions can be fraught with danger and despair, it's important to remember that bodies of all shapes and sizes have no reason to be ashamed of stripping down for a spritz whenever they desire.

But if your breasts are of gargantuan size, just be aware that you're entering the salon with two potential weapons.

Laura Brodnik is Mamamia's Head of Entertainment and host of The Spill podcast. You can follow her on Instagram here.

The post was originally published in March 2020 and has been updated on October 20, 2023.

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