the curse of small breasts

From the title of this post, I really don't have to say this, but I'll say it anyway: I have small boobs. There. I said it. Happy? You know what, I am. I am happy. On most days I am excited and thrilled to not have monster breasts that weigh me down and require me to wear some bra size that sounds more like a rifle model or type of ammunition. With small boobs, I also avoid ogling on the bus, pervs copping a feel on the underground, and other unsightly difficult girl problems (and that's a whole 'nother 750 item list).

But there are downfalls, of course. And I was reminded of them today. I was cleaning out my drawers of clothes. Having not been at home for a while, there was a lot of useless crap I didn't wear at all any more (my jean skirt and Ron Weasley t-shirt definitely go under this category), and I wanted to feel productive on an otherwise morbidly dull day. I thought I could really just skip over my undergarments drawer, because, who really hangs onto a gross pair of underwear or a decrepit bra after two or three years? But as I pulled things out, I noticed, stuffed into the bottom under some socks, a white bra.

Then I remembered: this was THAT bra. That horrible bra that I had hid and refused to wear. Why? Because when I went bra shopping for the first time ever (yes, with my mom), they had measured me then taken me to a "special section" where a bunch of racks were marked "Nearly A!"

Nearly. Thanks a lot jack-asses. The exclamation point after the A doesn't do anything for me, sorry. And the bra I purchased had a wonderful green tag on it that said the same thing. Mortified, I hid it and went without a bra for as long as I could. That bra still had the "Nearly A!" tag when I found it today. Unbelievable.

The thing is though, bra shopping has never been enjoyable for me at all. Not one bit. Seriously. What the fuck is up with Victoria's Secret? They honestly believe their customers look like their models. I feel great about myself when they tell me the only bras that come in my size are push up bras. Way to set back the feminist movement like, twenty years fucking bra companies. I also love the fact that when I do finally find a bra that is my size, after hours of tear jerking searches through miles of racks (haha, no pun intended), it only comes in fugly ass colors, like beige or tan. Whee. I look so fine in gray. Thanks.

Okay, so I don't really mind that much. I'm the last person you'll find putting on sexy lingerie or entering a Victoria's Secret at all. But I do think it gets to my friends when I call my boobs "inflamed mosquito bites" in front of them all the time. Might wanna ease up on that one a bit...