Tweet I sympathize with the writer who struggles with a small chest. Boys can be cruel. Especially those idiot ones in high school. I was a barely budding high school senior, so you can imagine the horror I went through. I was so self-conscious of my chest. My sister was the complete opposite of me: tan, full of curves, radiant. I very much resembled a stick. With a potato for a head. My sister was worldly and knowing where I was awkward and clueless. My sister had bras from Victoria's Secret where the only things that fit me were those cotton training bras from ShopKo. (I took off the little pink bows to make them appear more womanly.)
One summer day, my sister and I lounged lazily around the family room flipping through magazines and television stations. I picked up a Victoria's Secret magazine, studying the plethora of choices. (Yes, plethora, noun: overabundance; excess.) And the multitude of sizes... sizes I had never seen before. HUGE sizes and - ...small ones.
What's this? I thought. It says also available in AA. What is AA exactly? There's an A and then there's an AA. How would I know if I'm an AA versus an A? There has got to be something in this catalog that defines it.
But I couldn't find the definition. Great. If I really wanted to know I'd have to ask my sister. Who would probably laugh at me because I'm not as worldly in the art of bra manufacturers as she. I sucked it up and asked:
Hey - what's the difference between just an A and a double-A?
"Oh," she replied, matter-of-factly. "A's are shorter and fatter; double-A's are long and skinny."
I must have sat staring at my chest for twenty minutes before I realized she was talking about batteries.