I’ll admit, I don’t usually write about things like underwear. Or breasts. Mine or anyone else’s. Sharing embarrassing stories, like the time my pants’ seams gave way while shopping at Pier One and literally left me with no seat in my pants –thank god I was wearing real underwear and not a thong—aren’t topics I really like to write about. Not until today that is.
Today’s topic; bras and the breasts that go in them.
Who among us has actually got a bra that fits properly? I hear the grumbles out there. I can safely say that out of the dozen bras I do have in my closet, only one comes relatively close to fitting properly and even that fit isn’t perfect. At this point in my womanhood my body has shape shifted into almost every possible formation imaginable. There was the adolescent stick figure which warranted no breast support at all until my senior year in high school. My freshman year of college made its fast and furious appearance with stretch marks everywhere because apparently gaining 30 lbs in one year is too much for skin to handle. Ill prepared for the changes, I crammed myself into a C cup. Bad idea and certainly not a good fit for my D size. Come junior year the weight came off but the boobs stayed and although it may have been my best look to date, I didn’t appreciate them and still didn’t honor them with the right bra. If I only knew that I was in my body’s heyday.
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