I Made a C!

Poet John Greenleaf Whittier said: “And a nameless longing filled her breast, - A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.” Who would have thought he was talking about my breasts?

I’m not real big in the tits department. Bigger than mosquito bites or golf balls, but not quite more than a handful. I liken them to medium oranges without the texture or firmness. They’re small enough not to sag, though, so they give the illusion that they’re still perky. And they are fairly far apart. Like neighbors with an empty lot in between. When I lie on my back they’re closer to my armpits than they are to each other. Cosmetic surgery inquiries confirm that no natural looking implants would give me cleavage. That’s how far apart they are. Not that it looks freakish. My chest isn’t that wide to begin with.

Now, I could go into detail about my perfectly-proportioned nipples, lament the fact that I didn’t breastfeed my kids long enough, and go on about why mammograms are more uncomfortable for me than for anyone else, but I won’t. This is not a story about my tits so much as it is about appropriately padding them for display. I can go braless and no one notices unless I get cold. That’s why I need to dress them up.

After years of torturing my titties with ill-fitting bras, usually irregulars I found on the clearance rack at Ross, I decided one day to treat myself to a retail-priced bra or two from a real mall department store. So I gathered up an armload of cute bras I thought might fit. I had always thought I wore a 34B or 36A, so that’s what I was going to try. A salesgirl asked if I needed any help, and as I always do, I said no thanks. No matter where I am or what I need, my first response is always a stupid “No thanks, just looking” even though I am indeed looking for something specific. And even if I’m in a hurry. In fact, especially if I am in a hurry. I don’t need some salesperson slowing me down. Like a man who won’t ask for directions, my pride as a shopper won’t allow me to ask for help. I want the challenge of finding it on my own. I want the uneasiness of continuing to search for something that isn’t there like staring into a refrigerator hoping a meal will materialize. I have to get really desperate or pissed before I’ll ask someone for help and even then, they are rarely all that helpful except maybe after I chase down someone in an orange apron at Home Depot and ask what aisle the A/C filters are on. (Then I can’t ever find the filter size I need or even remember what size I need, but that’s another story.)

Anyway, there I was in the dressing room wishing I was trying on shoes or sunglasses or even swimsuits instead. Each bra was as expensive and uncomfortable as the other. Then I heard a little tap at the dressing room door. It wasn’t the polite knock I might have expected from the twentysomething salesgirl. It sounded more like a weak peck from a bird who wasn’t sure he wanted what he was pecking at. It was only a decibel or two louder than a fingernail scratch on a Formica countertop. Somehow I knew that an old lady had to be behind that sound. Sure enough, I heard the voice of somebody’s leathery grandmother ask, “You all right in there, hon?” While I was far from all right, I was not about to ask for help. I made the mistake of cracking the door open to recite my no-thanks-I’m-just-looking. As I said, my boobs aren’t that big, so that one-inch crack in the door was all grandma needed to see that I had no business trying on bras without her help. Before I knew it, this formerly meek door-scratcher had her gnarled arthritic fingers all over my torso. Mind you, this was not a modesty problem on my part, for I have very little of that. It was simply a personal space issue. When I reject salesperson’s help, it is usually from a safe distance. This gal had bullied her way right into my dressing room and insisted that I accept her help because she was an expert. Indeed, I no longer felt violated when I glanced at her name tag with an official-looking ribbon on it proclaiming Edna to be a Certified Bra Fitter. Show me a badge or buy me a drink, and you are free to fondle my breasts.

She shook her head disapprovingly and said, “Oh honey, these need some help.” Her sharp nails scraped my armpits as she cupped my bare breasts in her veiny wrinkled hands and pulled them toward each other, saying, “You’ve got a lot of good breast tissue here that you’re not making any use of.” I immediately drifted into an out-of-body experience as soon as I felt this strange elderly woman’s paws on my mammaries. “You’re a good C-cup, little lady,” she announced. I then felt like I had won the lottery. I went from creeped out to awestruck in less than 30 seconds. She was my fairy godmother. Her teeth clacked unnaturally as she ordered me to wait right there. Then she ambled off to get me the perfect bra.

While I waited, I gathered up all that breast tissue that I had theretofore thought was just chest fat, and realized that she might very well be right. I could indeed put all that into a bra and call it boobs. She reappeared much sooner than I thought humanly possible, even for someone half her age. I was entranced by the array of C cups hanging from her claws, and could not wait to fill them up with all this newfound breast tissue.

I thought she would leave me alone so I could start trying them on, but no. Another thing I learned about bras is that you have to know how to put one on. After she released the first bra from its hanger like a magician pulling a dove out from under a scarf, I hesitantly took it from her and began to hook it around my waist. Not since giving my last urine specimen had I experienced such performance anxiety. As I twisted it around me and pulled it up, I looked at her like a child taking his first steps. “Is this OK?” I asked. That was all it took for her roll her good eye and manhandle me some more. “Honey, you gotta lean forward and pour that breast tissue into the cups. It ain’t gonna find its way in there on its own.” I did as I was told. As I stood up and looked in the mirror, I felt tears of joy begin to well up in my eyes. Like Dorothy chanting, “There’s no place like home,” I could hear my inner voice shout, “I do have big boobs; I do have big boobs!” Edna looked at me like Michaelangelo must have looked at David and said, “Well, I think my work here is done.”

Mr. Whittier would be glad to know that I probably spent a few hundred dollars on bras that day. Not counting the hefty tip I left in the dressing room.