Last weekend, I overheard a woman at a bar. She was complaining to her friends — along with a drooling, semi-professional suit — that “having big boobs is soooo hard!” The crowd quickly laughed and dismissed her, while she tucked into her vodka soda with a knowing smirk on her face. Vom. (Also, my representative heuristic for ‘sophisticated drink’ is vodka soda. That also might have been the wrong use of representative heuristic. BUT I DIGRESS.)
We all know this woman: the 36-26-35 bombshell whose perfectly round rack may or may not have assisted them in getting nominated for homecoming queen, lead singer of a garage band, and/or associate in a management consulting firm. You might even think I am that girl, judging from the title of this article. Just another beauty complaining about her great boobs. How wrong you are; I am a 5’1”, frizzy-haired, big-mouthed grad student weirdo with this unprecedented set of 34DDDs. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a disproportionate troll, essentially. And I have come to regale the woes of my titties because they are one of the only things I’m extremely well-versed in.
1. Finding bras. Do you know what I would do to wear bandeaus, or those lacy bralette things from Free People? Even the word bralette is cute. Bra shopping for me involves longingly touching delightful bra things (they feel so nice between my fingers) and regaling myself to sadness in the granny bra store. You know which store I’m talking about. You all have one.
2. Finding swimsuits. Like bra shopping, but with cuter bathing suits made for you normal-boobed beeyotches. For me, swimsuit shopping is 49% pornographic, 50% mom-suit, and 1% I’m-exhausted-at-this-point-so-I’m-going-to-go-with-whatever-covers-my-nips SUCCESS.
3. The sag. Rarely anybody above a C-cup has perky boobs. If they are, they are likely fake. It’s possible that no one cares if they’re fake, really.
4. The underboob sweat. See also sideboob and betweenboob sweat. Hot days are the worst, because they involve copious amounts of discreet sweat scoopage. Are you into me yet, men?! Get at me.
5. Sidebags, messenger bags, seatbelts, and any other straps that go between the breasties. I included messenger bags as a formality, because I don’t know anyone past middle school who has one anymore. I definitely had one, though. It was Paul Frank and I was the shit. Needless to say, this was pre-bazongas.
6. Buttoned shirts. Buttoning up a nice work shirt all goes well until I button up the chest area, leading to that famous peekaboo gap that makes me feel like my boobs are gonna bust out at any moment, B-list soft-porn style.
There you have it, folks. Next time you wear a padded bra, or go bra-less, or wear a single sports bra when going out for a run, I hope you think of me. Because I can do none of those things.