No Disrespect Intended

Can we pretend for just a minute that this is a anonymous blog?  Wait, what’s that? Oh, it’s been so long since I blogged that no one reads this anymore and the few people who may stumble on here don’t have any idea who I am?  Perfect.

And why do I want this to be anonymous? You ask.  Because I’m going to talk about breasts.  And not just any breasts, my breasts.

You see, I used to have some.  Breasts that is.  I’ve never been chesty by any stretch but once upon a time I was a very respectable b cup.  Then I went on birth control and I was a c cup.  Then I got pregnant and for a minute I even went up from there. 

But then I stopped nursing and I stopped taking birth control and well, let me put it this way: when I go into Victoria’s Secret and the very nice girls there measure me I always get the same pitying look and then a half smile and a, “it looks like you’re an a cup.” 

An A cup. 

That’s what they say but the fact is I’m not an a cup, I’m a aa cup or a training bra (although, sadly, not nearly as perky as the usual inhabitants of the training bra) or maybe just a couple of band aids.  The fact is that I don’t need a bra at all, but the girls in Victoria’s Secret are aware of the fact that they sell bras and if they tell me that I don’t need what they’re selling then I won’t give them any of my money, so they tell me I’m an a cup.

Now, if this wasn’t an anonymous blog and you knew me and you had seen me you would be saying to yourself, “she has boobs.  Not big ones certainly, but she has something.”  You would be saying that because most of the time that’s true, I do look that way.  That’s because the girls at Victoria’s Secret were victorious in our little skirmish and I did give them my money in exchange for two bras that are sufficiently padded to make me a b cup again (or to serve as flotation devices for a small Cuban family trying to make a break for Florida) the bras in question are in fact so padded that they do not fold, they do not bend, they do not turn inside out (as one might try to make them do when folding laundry) and it’s a good thing that they have such innate strength, because sadly, I don’t even fill up the inner cups.

So to summarize my story so far, I have no breasts but most of the time I look like I do.

There is however, one time that I don’t.  You see, just like, and for the same reason that, I’m willing to spend obscene amounts of money for Styrofoam at Victoria’s Secret, I wear a sports bra to the gym.  (That reason being that I’m unwilling to leave the house without a bra.)  The problem is that, as most smaller chested girls will tell you, the sports bra is designed to hold you down and when you don’t have much to begin with and then you make a point of strapping it down, well, when I go to the gym I look like a breast cancer survivor.

Really.  So much so that I’m thinking about just going with that.  I think maybe I’ll buy a t-shirt with a big pink ribbon graphic on it or maybe see if I know someone with a spare walk for the cure t-shirt and start wearing it to the gym.  Maybe I’ll inspire someone with my bravery in the face of my obstacles.  I do have obstacles, just not breast cancer.  Besides I wouldn’t say that I had breast cancer, (I wouldn’t say anything at all, no one at the gym will talk to me but that’s a whole other post) I’ll just let them draw their own conclusions.