Size isn’t everything

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Boobs, boobies, tits, titties, breasts, ta-tas. Whatever you may call them, I think they are overrated. At least that’s what a flat chested gal like me tells herself to boost the ‘ol confidence. Chocolate chips on a cookie sheet, a 10-year-old boy’s chest, bumps on a log…I’ve heard them all. I’ve accepted my itty-bitty-titties though, for better or worse.

The better to wear backless shirts, sans annoying strapless bras, a back without pain due to boobie boulders, no permanent strap marks on my shoulders. These little babies of mine will never be able to sag to my belly button even if they tried.

I was recently sitting at dinner with a table of my buxom buds when they began discussing how difficult it is to find a size 32 bra. For those unaware of what that means—either men or women who have decided to bring braless back—the number on the bra size refers to the circumference around one’s torso, not the actual breast size. That’s the letter part.

I was about to commiserate with my fellow females, agreeing what a bitch it is trying to find a 32, when one said, “Yeah, 32 C is SO hard to find. It’s rare to see anything below a 34 anywhere!”

They went on to discuss the various places where their bra shopping adventures have been successes or busts (pun intended), but I tuned out. I felt defeated. To be able to be part of the conversation, I would have sounded like a girl trying to describe getting kicked in the nuts. I couldn’t relate. If they had a hard time trying to find a 32 C, imagine how hard it must be for me to find a 32 A, which isn’t even really my size.

About 5 years ago, I was measured by Georgette, the bra-sizing specialist my mother brought me to when she insisted I wear a bra to my sister’s wedding.

“Who doesn’t wear a bra to a wedding?!” she said in her thick, Long Island, Jewish mother accent, sounding absolutely appalled.

Appalled was I when I was told by Georgette, a little Italian meatball of a woman, to go into the tiny dressing room and take off my shirt and bra. She came in before I can even unhook my sad, pilled bra-lette and she took charge. She did the one-handed unhook with her thick sausage-like fingers, like an experienced teenage boy and my bra fell pathetically to the dressing room floor. It seemed like she was initiating a torrid love affair I wanted no part of.

Then there they were, perked up before her in all their glory. She took the measuring tape around me and cupped her hands underneath my breasts, slightly lifting them. I felt the embarrassment rise up through my neck to my face. I don’t know if I was more embarrassed that a 50-something, 4 foot woman with a mustache was feeling me up or the fact it was the most action I had seen in months. I looked up, avoiding eye contact with her and contracted my body so she wouldn’t touch any other body parts I didn’t want her to touch.

The measurement felt like an eternity as I awaited my fate. Then, very matter-of-factly, she said, “30A. Get dressed and I will show you what I’ve got.” Then she walked out, swishing the thin cloth door behind her, leaving me half-naked, feeling a completely violated and utterly shocked.

30 A?! 30 A?! I knew I was small but that’s really small. I knew men whose bra size would be bigger than that….lots of men. I have taught 3^rd graders who are bigger than that. 30 A?! That’s unnatural! A deformity even! Did wearing sports bras for so long squish them? Was it from years of sleeping on my stomach? Did I lack estrogen? Is that why I was an alto in the 6^th grade chorus when all the other girls were sopranos? How could I have a family of Cs and I was an A?! A 30 A!

Georgette proceeded to give me a bra transforming me from fla-fla-fla-flat to va-va-va-voom in a matter of seconds. This bra wasn’t just padded. It practically had mattresses in each cup. I felt like I had balloons in my shirt rather than deflated ones; like baseballs rather than pin balls. I held up my head high, proudly looked at myself out in the mirror and said, “Check out the rack on that chick!”

Yet I felt like an imposter. These weren’t mine. They were Georgette’s and as soon as I removed her miracle bra, I would be morphed back to Punky Brewster before she hit puberty.

Thirty five dollars and a proud smile on mom later, we left Georgette, who patted me on the back (was it a pity pat?) and said, “Wear it well!”

And I did…once, to the one event I promised to wear it to, my sister’s wedding. I look back at those pictures and laugh at my alter ego, Double D Dayna.

These days, my mega strapless bra sits among the other strapped contraptions in my unmentionables drawer raising its eyebrows at me every once in a while, wondering if I am going to wear it. “Not today,” I say, and I choose the regular 34 A (because 32 is SO hard to find). It is kind of loose, very raggity, but comfortably uncomfortable. My favorite part of the day is taking it off and letting my girls breathe, apologizing to them for having them cooped up all day.

OK, so people laugh at my pathetic bras. A family member once put my bra on top of her head saying one of the cups looked like a yarmulke. I just sat back, laughed at her and said, at least I can’t mop the floor with mine.

The point is I’m happy with what I have, for better or for worse.

*Since I wrote this, I made a trek to Bloomingdales for another official bra fitting. It has been 4 years since my Georgette experience and I felt perhaps I needed another opinion on my “official size”. I was surprisingly shocked when the petite lady sizing me said she would go look for some 32 Bs for me. YES, I SAID B! B as in boy. I guess my growth spurt just came a little too late in life. Hey, better late than never!

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