Growing up, I was flat chested.
My busty girlfriends would say, “Your time will come!” or “You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear a bra!” Yet, I would stand in the bathroom and look at myself and just feel bummed out. It was a very Judy Blume moment. You know, one of those “Are you there God, it’s me…”
In seventh grade, I made an executive decision to stuff my bra with toilet paper. I spent at least an hour in the bathroom getting the scrunching of the toilet paper just right. I didn’t want to appear too lumpy. I couldn’t fold the toilet paper either because that wouldn’t do much for the mission at hand. There was an illusion I had to create and I thought I pulled it off beautifully.
That day I was sporting a tiny white bra that had lace on the top part of the cup. No underwire, because let’s be real here, there was no support issue. As I walked up to the bus stop, my best friend yanked me away from the crowd. “Dude, did you stuff your bra?!”
“Yep. Looks good, right?” I gave a little runway walk and put my hand on my hip.
She turned me around so that my back was to the other kids at the bus stop. “Well, you went a little overboard. What are you, a C cup? Is there an entire roll of toilet paper in there? Jesus.. here…” And she shoved her hand down my shirt and pulled out a good bit of my hard work. Then she started adjusting my bra. Squishing the toilet paper. Molding it to look just right. She took a step back and said, “There. That looks more believable.”
God bless best friends.
The bus ride went along as normal- excruciatingly long (we lived out in the country and our high school was a solid thirty-minute commute) and classes were uneventful, until lunch break. As I sat with my best friend, we noticed people starting to whisper and point. “They’re on to me, aren’t they?” I asked. She leaned in close to me and said, “There’s a rumor going around that we’re lesbians. Yankee lesbians!” We started laughing. “What? We’re not lesbians!” We agreed that maybe pulling toilet paper out of my bra on a street corner at 6:15 am wasn’t the best idea we’d had. The brutality of pre-teens in a situation such as ours was not lost on us. It was also a time when acceptance was a tiny seedling- so the rumors escalated and the teasing continued. No mercy was shown.
Anyway, we overcame the rumors and went on about our day.
Five years after graduating high school, I was married and pregnant.
I went to bed one night slightly flat chested and woke up with a massive rack. Hand to heart, that’s how it happened. While I slept, the big man upstairs was like, “J needs a nice rack. She’s gotta feed that baby.” My husband at the time was like, “Where did those come from?” I’m pretty sure we high fived one another. That morning I spent a good hour in the mirror admiring myself and marveling at human biology.
My time had finally come.
After my son was born, the twins stuck around. My Dad told me that shortly after I moved back home, that he was at the local gas station and a few people were discussing how I must’ve had my boobs done. In that moment, I realized I’d been called up from the minors: I was part of town gossip!
There is a point to this if you’re still reading. I’m not just here to talk about how I came of age and the good Lord blessed me with a great rack (well, that’s part of it. Boobs are awesome, can’t lie). What I’m getting around to, is bra culture.
Currently, I have two drawers full of cute bras that give me coverage and are sensible. The ones with the wild patterns I save for when I wear black shirts because no one wants to see teal leopard print through a white shirt. Or maybe they do. Yeah, they probably do. I see you, there in the back, smiling.
Earlier in the year, I noticed that bralette’s were making a comeback. When I was in eighth grade they were in style- but not as lovely as they are now. I had a yellow one back then and it didn’t do much for me, except create a barrier between my tiny twins and my t-shirt. Recently, a few of my girlfriends had been singing the praises of these sexy sports bras, so I decided I’d try one out.
Well, three actually.
The first one was too small and I felt like I’d smother.
The second one was too big and I would just fall out.
Last night, I picked up my third (and in my mind, final attempt at being somewhat fashion forward). It’s black and lacey. It’s cute. It fits.
Or so I thought.
Normally I give new articles of clothing a test run at home before wearing them out in public. I need to make sure that there won’t be any mishaps or uncomfortableness. Sometimes you buy a bra and it fits, only to wear it an hour and your back is screaming for relief. This time, I threw caution to the wind and just put the bra on and got dressed for work.
Everything was working out fine until half way into my commute something felt off. Like a little too breezy. I looked down and noticed my boobs looked weird. At a red light, I pulled the neck of my shirt out to take a glance downward.
Well. Look at that.
Lucy left boob is just HANGING OUT. Apparently, she too likes to throw caution to the wind. What an attention whore!
In case you’re wondering how my Friday will be, I’ll just be here in my office, constantly adjusting myself. Thankfully, I don’t have any in-person meetings today nor do I have to be on television or go through TSA. Let’s all hope that my coworkers are accepting of my peekaboo boob. If it becomes too much, I could always just rip this bralette off and go free.
I’m kidding. No one needs to see how low they go.
Although, nothing screams casual Friday like a wonky tit, amirite?