My So-Called Breasts: Celebrating the Flat-Chested One Hazelnut At A Time

A very flat-chested woman finally decided she needed a bra and set out to the mall in search of one in Her size. She entered an upscale department store and approached the saleslady in lingerie, "Do you have a size 28AAAA bra?" The clerk haughtily replied in the negative, so she left the store and proceeded to another department store where she is rebuffed in much the same manner. After a third try at another department store in the mall, she had become disgusted. Leaving the mall, she drove to K-Mart. Marching up to the sales clerk, she unbuttoned and threw open her blouse, yelling, "Do you have anything for this?" The lady looked closely at her and replied, "Have you tried Clearasil?"


I want boobs.

Well, I actually have boobs, they're just less cantaloupey and more fried eggish. I'll never have surgery because (1) it's expensive and I'd rather go out to dinner at really nice restaurants with fabulous foods and (2) I don't like increasing my odds of never waking up again and (3) I scar weird. I get keloids, which basically is like whacked out scar tissue growing out of control and you end up with a big, raised scar. It's not pretty.

There are things they can do to offset the rapidly growing scar tissue, but that's called Steroid Injections At The Site which basically means I have to sit there while someone pokes a needle 4,000 times into my fresh, tender scar. You'll only feel a pinch, my ass. And it takes more than one office visit to work. So you have to willingly go back for more injections.

I've also had scar tissue removed which is called Let's Take A Scalpel And Cut Out The Scar And Hope To God It Doesn't Keloid Up Again. That hurts, too. Just in case you were wondering.

I refuse to get my c-section scar fixed because I'm pretty sure only one person is ever going to see it and Big V likes it because it reminds him of the puffy stickers of his youth. Besides, when it's exposed he's oddly interested in other parts of my body....

But I digress. The point is, I'd never get a boob job because I'm afraid the incisions will keloid. They'd end up looking like side nipples and I don't think that would be a good look for me. And I get that they can go through the belly button but I'm going to be 40 in a couple years and I'm pretty sure that means I missed the whole Your Outtie Is SO Cute train.

Since I could probably pass as Macaulay Culkin's chest double, it's obviously quite difficult (and near impossible) to find proper fitting brassieres. Although I have found success in the tween section at our local WalMart, there comes a time in a woman's life when a bright pink and white polka dot training bra with lime green straps is no longer considered age appropriate.

I've tried purchasing the smallest option at Victoria's Secret and, here's the thing - the secret is they don't cater to the small chested woman. I've got enough space between my flesh and the fabric to store my lunch. No matter how convenient that is, it's still very unsexy.

And don't get me started on those stiff formed bras; sure they might make you look like you've got a solid set of ta-tas, but hold one set of books to your chest while you're walking and they indent. A breast is not supposed to have a plateau.

Then I stumbled upon something even more secret than Vicky's... there are actually companies that focus on women with petite chests. Isn't that cute? Petite? It means small, people, but it's a much classier way of saying it, don't you think? Of course, there are only two companies in the entire world, but still. I see hope!

I looked at the options online; and, well, they looked like regular grown up bras... only smaller. The only thing I needed to do was measure myself. Which I couldn't seem to do by myself so I had Big V help me, which was totally okay because he's had to extract me out of one of those slimming tank tops that act like a girdle and that was a very awkward situation for everyone. He's seen me at my worst more times than he's seen me at my best so nothing really scares him anymore.

Here, I said, throwing a fabric measuring tape at him. Can you measure my boobs? I want to order a new bra.

You're naked! His eyes start to sparkle and he gets this devious look across his face.

We're not having sex.

Oh. The smile quickly fades.

Just measure me.

Fine. He stands up and approaches me.

And he takes the tape measure and holds it vertically on top of my breast. Like, up and down. From the top of my tiny cutlet to the bottom. (If Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl was here she would totally insert a hand drawn illustration of Big V measuring while I scowl at him. She's awesome at illustrations. Maybe she'll make me one for my birthday.)

And there he is, standing across from me like a tailor with his arms out, squinting at the tape measure and announces, it looks like about three inches.

And then I explain how he's supposed to measure. Around the body, just under the arms, which is according to the directions posted on the Minuscule Mammories website.

And he wraps the measuring tape around me and pulls tight. Like, really tight. And now there's two inches of fatty mass oozing over the tape as well as oozing under the tape and I ask him what on earth he is doing. And, bless his heart, he said he didn't want me to be upset with the numbers so he's trying to make it as small as possible.

So I ask him to quick measure my waist and thighs because those are the numbers where smaller is better. But in the case of the girls, bigger is better.

I tell Big V we need to take the measurements he's written down and determine the cup size. "To calculate your cup size, subtract your band size from your cup measurement," I read from the directions. "A one inch difference would mean you are an A cup. Less than one inch, is an AA cup size, and less than one-half inch is a AAA cup." Okay, I look up at Big V. What cup size am I?

He stares at me.... What if it didn't change and it's the exact same measurement?

I contemplate a roundhouse kick to his jaw but quickly realize that (1) violence is never the answer and (2) our bathroom is far too narrow to execute a good sweep.

Ahh! I'm just kidding!! Oh my goodness; he honestly thinks he's funny.

We're measuring you next, I deadpan.

You're a double-A. Can I go now?

Please.


All this reminded me of one lazy summer as a teen, when my sister and I were lounging around the living room flipping through magazines and I came across a sizing chart for bras that included an A and an AA option. Not knowing the difference but assuming my older, wiser sister would, I asked, What's the difference between A and AA?

Her answer: One is short and fat and the other is long and skinny.

I sat there for twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell my itty-bitties resembled more of before I realized she was talking about batteries.