Warning: Mature Content, because this tale deals with my breasts, referred to as:
- Droopy and Bashful
- The Girls
- and sometimes TaTas
(You see why it has a "Mature" content rating. Also, if you saw my breasts, well, mature is a nice way to describe them.)
When I was at my Grandmas funeral, there were two topics of conversation, Grandmas arthritis and Grandma's breasts. The arthritis made her fingers twisted and gnarled. (To demonstrate, my Grandfather pulled Grandma's hand out of the coffin and waved it about, bellowing: "SEE HOW TWISTED AND GNARLED HER FINGERS ARE FROM THE ARTHRITIS?" This is why we were concerned when the conversation turned to Grandma's breasts.) It seems Grandma's breasts were so large the bra straps gouged deep channels into her shoulders and caused her no end of back problems and suffering. All the old ladies were very sad about the suffering Grandma's breasts caused her, especially the "little" old ladies.
I was in my early twenties and thought, "I am thankful I have not inherited Grandma's breasts," as you do when you are a 32C and in your early 20s. I had gone from 32nothing to a 32C over the course of a week at 11 and had held fast to that measurement. Since the cup is the difference between the ribcage and what I imagine might be called the "erect" state, the abnormally small ribcage bought me the C cup. I was perhaps a little vain about the C cup. However, 32s don't usually have C's, so I just had to accept any bra color or style in 32C. Or go to Frederick's and order a bra, which I did once, but the bra looked so pedestrian compared to the label it was a perpetual reminder that I had Frederick's breasts with a pedestrian lifestyle.
I knew decisively I was a 32C because Mom hauled me in to Famous after that fateful week and got me a properly fitted bra. I remember the trip because the Famous saleswoman barged into the dressing room and wanted to know HOW I WAS DOING while I was taking off my too-small undershirt. Mom hadn't seen me naked in my entire conscious life (nor has she ever) and here this woman was staring at my two new body parts I had only known for a week. I was going to protest as she spun me around so I faced the mirror, not her, and she stared at my bosom in the mirror, as if that made it acceptable under the Dressing Room Code. Then she measured, then announced, then barged out, then barged in, then barged out, then discussed my breasts with my mom for the edification of any perverts in the vicinity. I tried on the first bra, then pulled on my old bra and all my old clothes before she got back and said it was fine. "Well, put it back on then!" she whooped, and I had to model for her before she
allowed me to leave with her approval.
Then the bra came home and was worn daily, perhaps alternating with others exactly like it, all through high school and college. I will confess, I have only one or two bras at a time, with perhaps a special-occasion bra, such as my specially engineered cantilevered backless bra. When they get just too old and sad they are replaced with another bra that has no qualifications but the number 32C on the label. And of course, I've never tried on a bra in a dressing room since the Famous experience. Besides, it's not like The Girls are particularly attractive, since having a week to mature left them with stretch marks and, shall we say, little infrastructure.
Of course, in the last few years I have lost what little infrastructure I had, and I have seen my Grandmother in myself every time I've hitched up my brassiere. It began with a one-handed adjustment to the back, to a dual front-and-back two handed haul, to a dual front-back haul with a thumb pulling down the left side. This is why the giant billboard inquiring "GOT A BRA PROBLEM?" appealed to my particular demographic, the demographic of women who had 40-year-old breasts at 11, and 65-year-old breasts at 40. "GOT A BRA PROBLEM?" it asked to all the people driving over the bridge to St. Charles. "Why, yes I do, thank you for asking," I'd say, as I rubbed the deep channels the bra straps made in my shoulders. "GOT A BRA PROBLEM? WWW.ANNSBRASHOP.COM"
So one day I went to Ann's, which was like a giant Famous dressing room, populated entirely by brash middle-aged women who took the doors off the dressing rooms and replaced them with curtains so they could barge at will. When you walk in to Ann's you are assigned a bra consultant and hustled to a curtained-off corral where you wait for someone to barge in on you, because you were 11 once and you expect it now. After a few minutes I began to read the literature posted on the corral wall (Ann of Ann's Bra Shop promotes monthly self-exams. I thought about doing a speed-self exam but knew I'd be barged in on.) Soon, Marie my consultant barged in and I explained I was tired of hefting my bosom about. (I didn't tell her my fear of being dug up by archaeologists in the year 2508 and my skeleton displayed at a museum next to a plaque reading "this middle-aged woman exhibits the channels in her shoulder blades common to women with ill-fitting bras.") Marie measured (from behind, of course)
and asked "What are you wearing now, 32C?" Damn! I thought, Marie is good! I nodded and Marie barged out and almost immediately barged back in. "Try this on!" she barked. "Its a 32DD."
I almost laughed and said no, they don't make 32DDs. "But," I thought, "That's why I have a bra consultant, so she must know. Besides, perhaps I have grown since I was 11. That must be why my bra doesn't fit." I trying the bra on, fastening it and yanking it around, you know, as you do, when Marie barged in again. "How you doin'?" I decided I was a 32DD and I shouldn't be shy about my bosom, since I'm a DD Woman. Hell, I'm a WWoman! I turned to face Marie with my bra hooked upside down and backwards beneath my BBoobs. She hung another bar on the hook and said "Try this one, you might be more comfortable," before ducking out, intimidated by my full frontal confrontational semi-nudity. I peeked at the label -- 32DD Minimizer! I just had to double over and laugh. Eventually I composed myself and dropped the breasts in the DD cups and stood up.
Front on, I looked okay, except it wasn't a lacy delicate bra, and it looked like a Viking breastplate. So no cleavage, but I probably haven't had that since Tuesday of The Week My Breasts Grew.
Then I turned to the side. You know how 12-year old boys draw breasts? When they draw a front-on representation, they draw what looks like the letter U with a dot for the nipple. But the boys don't know what breasts look like from the side. So they draw a U sticking out from the woman's body. Like a torpedo with a dot for a nipple. Well, I have been wrong about the artistic skills of those boys. They must have seen their Grannies in profile. It was as if someone had papier-mached my slack bosom when I was doubled over laughing about the Minimizer bra and when I stood up it stayed that way. I'm used to these bras that take what I have and mush it up so it approximates a circular breast, since it has no infrastructure. There was no mushing. I was just cranked up and ratcheted out horizontally. I pondered my breasts. I allowed them a moment to adjust to their new environment.
Left Breast: Hey! Hey! What are we doing in this strange position?
Right Breast: I know! I'm not mushed and I'm not dangling.
Left Breast: It's actually kind of liberating jutting out here.
Right Breast: Yes! I feel like Kate Winslet on the bow of the Titanic.
And, I admit, I felt no pressure on my shoulders. I couldn't breathe, of course, which is why I was oxygen-deprived enough to consider trying on the Minimizer. Marie was right, it was more comfortable, because it gave my armpit fat somewhere to go. I almost snapped it up too just for the absurdity (and the good laugh it had given me) but it was enough of a stretch walking out with a 32DD bra. As I left, Marie advised me that I should be sure I slept in this bra so my breasts wouldn't become misshapen as I slept. Marie, I thought, that ship has sailed, baby, plus I would die from a splintered rib if I slept in this contraption. And I bet my tits would poke Gary's eye out. Actually I've never liked the word "tits," but its the only word pointy enough to describe my breasts in this device.
I put it on when I got home and told Gary he was married to a DD WWoman.
"Woo!" he said.
I whipped my shirt over my head and flashed my 32DDs at him. He screamed. I whipped my shirt down and saw him cowering in his chair covering his eyes.
"I hate that bra!" he screamed. "Ugh! Ugghhh!"
"What is wrong with you?" I demanded to know.
"I saw my grandmother in her underwear once! My grandmother had a bra like that!"
It's the circle of Life. One Grandma dies, another is born to take her place. Meanwhile I'm sure I'll get arthritis in addition to the deep channels that are being gouged into my ribcage.