When I was a girl I prayed to God for three things every night before bed: please let Mama, Daddy, and Granny live for a long, long time; please don’t let me have another nightmare about Jason from Friday the 13th; and please make my boobs grow soon. By the time I was in 4th grade all my friends were wearing training bras. Meanwhile, my chest was flat as a board and would stay that way until junior high. I decided to take up this matter with a higher power because I was sure I’d been cursed. According to genetics I should have been stacked. The women in my family filled DD-cup bras easily. So what was wrong with me?
I would eventually make it to a B-cup bra, but that wasn’t enough. For years one of my life goals, sandwiched between “Be a best-selling author” and “Travel to London,” was “Wear a C-cup bra.” Then I discovered feminism, self-esteem and the joy of being able to wear tank tops without worry of being over exposed. By the time I reached my 20s I was finally completely content with my breasts as they were. I even wrote and published columns about them when I was a writer for the Louisville lifestyle magazine Velocity Weekly.
Then came 2009. I was 28 years old and suddenly my breasts started to grow like I’d hit some delayed stage of puberty. I also went up a pants size that year, so the increase in boob size was most likely from that dreaded weight gain that all my older gal pals warned would hit as I crept closer to 30. I could no longer button the top button of my favorite vest. My sports bras offered no support when I was working out and I was spilling out of nearly every bra I owned. Nonetheless, I refused to be measured for a new size. I’d worked entirely too hard to be happy with my B-cup boobs for nature to go changing things.
But this weekend while at the Southern Women’s Show with my mom I strolled by a booth set up by the department store Belk that was helping women discover their right bra size. So I decided to give it a try. I stepped behind the curtain and the sales associate asked me what size I typically purchased. I proudly said “36 B” and she laughed in my face. She said, “36 is probably OK, but you’re most likely way off with that B-cup.” So she measured me and then said, “I’ll be back. I’m going to get a bra that I think will fit you.” She came back with one that looked a bit bigger than what I normally purchase, but when I put it on without checking the size. It fit perfectly. Then she said, “That’s a 34 double D.” I almost passed out. I was so stunned by this revelation I had break out my Blackberry and text my cousin/BFF about it.
The sales associate informed me that the average woman is a D cup and that most women, especially those who consider themselves small-chested, wear bras that are way too small.
So I’m a 34 DD. You’d think I’d be happy. The curse is broken. But I’m not. DD bras are NOT sexy and the few that are cute are too expensive. I coughed up the cash for one new bra in this newly discovered size, but to be honest, I’ll probably continue to stuff the tatas in my B-cups for a while or just stick to wearing camisoles with built-in bras. I’m in denial. It’s hard to believe my bosom buddies are all grown up.