Not a girl, not yet a woman – oh, no, wait!

In the last few weeks – ok, months – I’ve come to the conclusion that, uh, my bras don’t fit. At all. I had worn them until they looked like hobo bras. And then there was the little detail of how they cut into my boobage, giving me quadraboob. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

I took my shabby-bra-ed self down to Nordstrom last night. This store both intimidates and thrills me. I love it, yet I never buy anything there because it’s a little more expensive than, say, Marshall’s. But I knew that desperate times call for desperate measures. So, I marched up to the cute woman in the lingerie section and told her I needed to be measured.

Her response? “Oh, good! I’m bored.”

Having worked retail, I totally respect that.

Lingerie girl and I then spent a very intimate 40 minutes wrangling my cleavage into various and sundry brassieres. And guess what?

I was wearing the totalllllly wrong size. Like, wrong band size. And super, super wrong cup size.

Let’s put it this way: pretend that my old bra was a size S. The two $70 (!!!) bras that I walked out with are both size XL.

I’m still in shock. Having been mocked by my friends and, oh yes, my family for being small-chested, I’m still not accustomed to the fact that sometime between ages 30 and 32, I finally hit puberty. Seriously. The fitting was a confirmation of what I sort of already knew, but DAMN!

I walked around all night asking Mr. Wonderful, “Have you seen these giant knockers? My boobs are HUGE! I mean, have you looked at these giant gazongas?”

And, of course, he’s all, “Uh, I’m a guy? They’re all I look at? Please don’t ask me to pick your face out of a line-up?”

So, I was feeling all sassy this morning because I’m wearing a new bra and for once my sweater doesn’t scream, “Lady! Cross your arms and get thee to a Vicky’s Secret, stat!” It’s Friday. I was feeling good.

And I had a very in-depth conversation with my boss about strategic planning and my department’s workload – you know, my department, of which I am the manager, like a grown-up. And at the end of the meeting, he said,

“Great. Thanks, kiddo.”

My chest swelled with indignation.

It took all of my inner reserve and strength not to say, “Haven’t you seen these enormous boobies? I’m sooo not a kid anymore!”

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