I have not exactly been blessed in the boobs department. I have been endowed with whopping, almost full A cup, breasts. I spent most of my teenage years wishing they were larger. When my best friend at the time gave me a Wonderbra as a gift I was mortified. Sure, I enjoy not having to worry about hiding bra straps under dresses, camisoles with built-in shelf bras offer more than enough support, and it is kind of nice to not have to worry about having special bras to workout in, but there are still times when I wish a little of the fat on my butt would migrate up toward my boobs.
The other week I was shopping for a bra for a friend. Not only has she been overwhelmingly blessed in the bosom department she also has a baby she just recently stopped breastfeeding, which only added to her endowment. I entered the store and went to the section where the sports bras were. I began looking through the bras trying to find the one matching the picture my friend had sent me the previous night. I was secretly hoping none of the saleswomen would ask me if I needed help because I wasn’t quite sure how me and my A cup boobies would explain needing a DD cup bra. Seconds after I begin pawing through a wrack of bras I hear a pleasant, “Can I help you find something?” “Yes,” I hear myself say. I instantly know I am going to regret this response. I show the saleswoman the bra I am looking for then say, “I need this is a 40DD.” There is a VERY awkward pause. She glances down at my breasts then instantly realizes what she has done and turns a bright shade of red. “It’s for my friend,” I blurt out. “Oh,” she clears her throat. “Let’s look over here.” We soon discover the store does not carry the bra in the size or color I need.
I ask if we can order the bra online at one of the computer kiosks at the store since the catalog says they carry the bra in the size and color we are looking for. “Sure,” she chirps. And off we go for what will be the most awkward exchange both of us have probably ever experienced in the world of retail. She logs onto the computer and finds the bra. “What color?” “Black,” I respond.
“And, you needed what size?” She asks as she looks over her shoulder and directly at my chest.
“Um…it only goes up to a,” glance back at my chest, “38.”
“Okay.” I ask her to hold on so I can call my friend and make sure this will work. I have no idea how bras really fit. The difference between 38 and 40 could mean the bra staying put and falling around one’s knees for all I know. I wear camisoles with built-in shelf bras 75% of the time. A few years ago I went to one of those fancy schmancy bra shops where a specialist fits you with bras and they custom tailor whatever doesn’t fit perfectly. I went in, got manhandled by a professional bra fitter for 30 minutes, and walked out $200 poorer, but with three amazing bras that fit like no other under garments I have ever owned. I have no idea what size they are or what went into figuring out what fit right. All I know is my boobies look amazing in those bras. Needless to say, I leave the dirty work to the professionals. My friend, who knows way more about bras that I ever hope to assured me that a 38 would fit her. “Yes, 38 is fine,” I tell the saleswoman.
“38?” She glances at my chest again.
“DD?” She is REALLY checking out my boobies, or lack there of, at this point. She is not even trying to hide it anymore. I am being checked out, but nothing exciting is going to come from this. Payoff of not, I realize I should soak it in while I can. No one has ever been this interested in checking out my chest before. It is not exactly my selling point.
“38DD?” She cannot seem to bring herself to choose the size I am asking for. Her poor little brain is about to combust. Tiny little me is asking for the largest bra size they make when it is clear I do not even fill out the smallest size they make in this particular bra.
“38DD in black.”
“Okay. 38DD in black?”
“Yup. Soak in all 32 almost A of me,” I think. Instead I casually reply, “Yes. 38DD in black.”
“Okay.” She takes one last look at my boobs. And I think, “Soak this up, Djuna, this may be the most interest anyone has in your boobs ever again.”
Finally, the transaction is over. The order has been placed. The saleswoman tries to make some casual small talk with me. It doesn’t really help. I have been thoroughly checked out by a saleswoman who will probably be telling all of her friends the story of the tiny chested woman buying a humongous bra over drinks tonight.