My best friend Ellie got home on Sunday. Now Ellie is the tantamount girl scout. She’s a jack of all trades. An expert on basically everything. But breasts are her specialty. We were watching a movie last night when she turned to me and muttered
“Your bra doesn’t fit.”
“I know.” I sighed. I’ve been in denial about my bras thinking if I just drop a few lbs, they will fit again.
“We’re going shopping tomorrow.” She informed me and since I needed to buy a nice outfit for my impending interview I agreed. And so we resumed our movie watching.
Ellie has had breasts since as long as I can remember. She was one of the first kids to ever get a training bra and in highschool when I was barely a B, she would lecture me, insisting that I not complain about my chest for she was cursed with the opposite problem. Now Ellie has enormous breasts. And by enormous, I really do me large. She currently wears a 42 DDD and must purchase them at Lane Bryant because nothing else will fit her right. She’s an expert on breasts and bras, so I generally trusted her to lead me in the right direction. What was the first thing we did? Get fitted.
I am a 36 D.
36 D.
36 D.
36 D.
My world came crashing down and suddenly things started making sense. Riding horseback and wincing every time we pranced particularly quickly. Buddha constantly trying to nurse from me. Children who fall asleep on my chest. Men who stare at what I used to think were my witty t-shirts. My brother complaining that I stretched out his t-shirt. My inability to sleep on my belly comfortably. All of it suddenly came together.
I don’t know when the hell that happened but I blame Ellie.
Her breasts are contagious.