Here and now, I would like to officially Eat Crow.
I always proclaimed that anything more than ten bucks for an undergarment was a gross decadence. I wore six dollar bras, and wondered vaguely why they were so damn uncomfortable. I assigned discomfort as a standard function of bras.
I was wrong.
I just laid out a truly shocking $40 for a bra at Victoria’s Secret, and it is so damn comfortable I would sleep in this thing.
Part of it may be the fit. I got fitted for a bra, something I’ve never bothered to do. This was a revelation.
No wonder my bras were uncomfortable. I’ve been wearing a 42C. I was a C. I went automatically to C. When C was tight, I got a bigger chest size. This didn’t really work, but it didn’t occur to me to try anything else, because I was a C, damnit!
Heh. Apparently at some point in my life, I turned into a 38DD without anybody telling me. No wonder those things felt like a boob tourniquet.
Shit on de grill, double D. God help me. I feel as if somewhere a judge banged a gavel and sentenced me to join that penal colony of Women With Big Boobs. DD. It’s like a Mark of Cain. (My mother, who was always exceedingly well endowed, and then had a kid in her late forties and wound up in the terrifying realms that lie past F, which I used to joke about, would be fully justified in pointing and laughing at this point. Since she is one of the kindest people I know, she will probably be sympathetic instead, so I’m pointing and laughing at myself to restore the cosmic balance.)
I have at least one friend who would probably chew ground glass to get down to DD, so I can hardly complain, but it’s a bit of a shock to my mental body map. I am not a chunky, medium sized woman with medium sized boobs. I’m a chunky medium sized woman with…like…a rack. (Carlota! Come stand next to me so nobody notices!)
I want a support group.