boobtacular

This weekend, I went clothes shopping—mostly for jeans, but I am not made of stone, and so I tried on sweaters and dresses and shirts and blouses and jackets and more sweaters, because all of mine are horrible and I hate them so much. You know how it is, and how the mornings can be, when everything makes you lumpy, and full of hate, and full of hate for your lumpiness and also the entire world which sucks and will never be happy, not every again.

Clearly, the remedy for that is an entirely new wardrobe! Or at least dreams of a new wardrobe when you do not have any cash at all because you are stupid. So I tried on a lot of clothes and planned in my head what to look for and accumulate once the magic time when I have money came around again at some kind of magic time in the future. That period, however, would have to coincide with the magical time in which I did not look awful in every single thing I put on my body, no matter the silhouette or the size or the material and what was going on? What was going on was my boobs. Actually, the problem was that they didn’t have it going on. They were sad. They were lifeless. They broke my heart.

Once I figured out the problem, I stood shirtless in front of the
dressing room mirror for minutes on end, looking at my boobs from every
angle. Sad. Still sad. Still so sad. Experimentally, I lifted up the
straps of my bra. A little better. I yanked on the tops of the cups.
Better still. Oh god, I realized. It’s not my boobs—well, it’s a little
bit my boobs. But mostly, it was my oversized bra. With a sense of
urgency and a need for immediate gratification, I threw my shirt back
on (I am so detail-oriented!) and dashed off into the mall, up to the
Nordstrom’s lingerie section, to have my breasts manhandled by a tiny
Filipino lady who laughed when I took off my shirt.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Much too big. What size?” 38C, I told her. She
clucked her tongue and whipped out her measuring tape. “32—maybe 34. B.
Let’s try you 34B, okay?” She disappeared, returned with a handful of
bras, and left me to them. I struggled into them, and then was a little
delighted to see that they didn’t fit. Ha ha! I was no B cup! Take
that. She knocked on the door, asked me how I was doing. I flung it
open and showed her, and she was shaking her head at me again. “No,
no,” she said. “Look here.” She unbuckled me and loosened the shoulder
straps. I stood there panicking quietly, unsure of the boobular
etiquette involved. Do I pretend I’m not topless? Is it rude to not
cover my breasts, or maybe it’s rude to cover them because it means I
don’t trust her? I sort of casually crossed my arms over my chest and
scratched the back of my neck in a very nonchalant way.

The fitter, who was short enough to carry on a conversation with my
breasts, spun me around and pushed me forward, so I was leaning at the
waist. She flung the bra around my front hung on to either side of the
band, as if I was a horse on a bit and reigns. I sort of hung there
awkwardly. “Lift,” she said, gesturing at her own chest. “Into the
cup.” “Oh!” I said, and dropped my boobs in, plop, plop. She fastened
me up, tugged down the band, and there I was, in a 34B. A B cup! I have
never in my life, since the dawn of the age of the bra wearing, been
less than a C, and suddenly, there I was, with little boobs.

I liked my little boobs. I twisted and turned in the mirror. Cleavage,
roundness, a perfect fit. I pulled on my shirt, experimentally, turned
to the side. I had breasts, again! They looked good in my top! I am
suddenly proportionate, instead of weirdly flat chested in my
unflattering, unsupportive bra, and I am about to spend way, far way
too much money on a collection of bras that give new life to my new
breasts, hallelujah! There is so much that makes me feel insecure,
hateful, disgusted with, tired of my body. I am not fat, but I am still
not good enough, and fuck that noise. I looked at myself in the
dressing room mirror, and I was happy with my shape, and those DKNY
bras were worth the money. With these boobs, I look good enough to pay
rent in other, more lucrative ways now, anyway.

4 Replies to “boobtacular”

  1. I’m glad you were able to get a bra-fitter lady to help you. I wear a 38JJ and those ladies always try to convince me that I must be wrong and deceived about my bra size (I’m not; I worked at Lane Bryant for a while and fit people into bras all the time) and that surely I’ll fit into their 44EE bras. Nope. Then they shrug bewilderedly and tell me I will never, ever, fit into a bra, period (I do have to, in fact, order mine custom-fit). lol.

  2. LOL–it’s just as awkward for the woman doing the fitting, sometimes! The first few times I was confronted with a totally nude woman who wanted her tits measured I didn’t even know what to do. :) Just do whatever you’re comfortable with–we’re used to people both covering up and baring it all!

  3. Ahhh! Nothing beats the feeling of a well-fitting bra! And three well-fitting bras! That’s like an heir and two spares!!!

  4. Best money I ever spent was getting a boob lift. Who knew nipples weren’t supposed to point at your toes? But I do miss having a juicy double-D to sport around.

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