This doesn’t happen to everyone

I know there are women out there who don’t have my specific issue because I’ve seen their bodies, and I presume there are women out there who don’t feel the way I do, but my big boobs drive me nuts.

Gaining 80 pounds since the age of 20, it seems like one quarter to half that weight has gone straight to my bust. While fun and a blessing on occasions where I get to wear cleavage enhancing attire, most of the time they’re just fleshy boings that get in the way of regular clothes. How many times have I held up a dress or a blouse or a bikini and said out loud (to no one listening), “That’ll never hold the girls.”

Bras are a nightmare, and the bigger my ta-tahs get, the worse the dream. My mom is always saying to me, “You need a new bra.” Yeah, I do, but try finding a utility bra that looks good, fits comfortably, and flatters. It’s like searching for WMD’s in Iraq—mysteriously elusive to the point of mass hysteria.

And you know what? They itch. They flesh-poid part that folds over onto my chest gets sweaty and itchy, and as my bra becomes humid, it magnifies the problem exponentially.

I have a well-endowed girlfriend who just skips the bra. How does she do it? Is it my own social hang-up that holds me from freedom, or does she really just have magic boobs? I just can’t imagine mine without rebar support.

Speaking of which, I’ll mention in passing the horror of the underwire, but not discuss. It is an issue so profound as to occupy pages of the secret girl handbook. This digression includes the necessity of the structure to hold the bosom in place, but their unnatural and inhumanly shape does nothing alleviate the actual discomfort of the bosom. The two-dimensionally curved wire does not mimic the three-dimensionality of the actual female body. I have taken to bending the underwire to fit my body, but this is not easy because it’s actually called “memory wire,” which means it somehow ingeniously knows to retain its shape. I need some sort of industrial boob press to load the bra in and reshape its impression.

I once picked out an “Oprah’s Favorite Things” bra that a chesty-la-rue friend of mine recommended, and the underwire literally bruised my ribs. I wondered what sort of parallel universe Oprah and my friend’s tits existed in. In this universe, I was bruised for two days and returned the $50 over the shoulder boulder holder for a full refund. I considered removing my clothes to show the salesperson the physical damages caused by Oprah’s female mind control, but I didn’t think Von Maur would appreciate it.

Ladies of the A-cup. I know you think us D’s are a wonder to behold and that you envy the way we fill out our tank tops. Please don’t. Please don’t think for a moment that my chest is superior to yours. I’d give anything to lose those 80 pounds just to get my teenage boobs back. Hindsight: I wish I had appreciated the tiny boobs when I had them, because now I regret every moment I wasted, praying, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.” Yeah, I even tried those boob enhancing exercises. They didn’t work. Turns out you just have to wait for your family’s predestined genetics to kick in and change your whole body. Bless you A-cups, you know not what gift you have.