I have vivid memories from childhood of other kids calling me a carpenter’s dream–you know, flat as a board and stiff as a nail. But once I hit puberty–or, more aptly, once it hit me–that claim could be made no more. Unless, as I now suspect, a carpenter’s dream is also a hot chick with a nice rack, which is what I slowly and surely became. Indeed, I wouldn’t quite say that I’ve got incredible boobs, but there isn’t really another way to say it, so I guess I would say that. Consider this me saying that.
For years, this nice rack has been hanging out in a 34B set of stirrups and I never really second guessed the cup size because no matter what I put them in, they are still always awesome. Kind of like me and awkward situations–I may have thrown up on your chest but I’m still awesome, or at least I’m going to be once I stand up, unzip my sweatshirt, and these girls hit your face.
In any event … for the first time in recent memory, or any memory (in case you couldn’t tell, memory isn’t my best subject) I grew badly in need of new bras. By badly, I mean that I took to wearing bandeaus around the office, which would have been fine in summer weather, but my nipples are as sensitive as my car’s tire pressure monitoring system, so any sign of a cold front is going to have men from a mile around coming to ask me where the parking garage is. It’s straight ahead … obviously. In one particularly cruel twist of fate, I left my mammogram nipple stickers on when I went to work, and those, on top of my where-did-all-the-flowers-go nipples, poked straight through the bandeau. That was a rough Bandaid to rip off, and no wonder everything that came out of my mouth that day was the most interesting thing said. Like, ever. It’s too bad my breasts can’t have conversations of their own–watch out Nobel Prize, here they come.
This time, I went to Victoria’s Secret to buy my latest bras which is so horribly and absolutely cliché that I just had to try it once. And thank God that overrated experiences attract me, because I discovered there that I am actually a 32D. When I first heard that from the hot blond chick without a 32D who had her arms wrapped around me, my first thought was “32Don’t you make me pay more for my incredible rack.” My second thought was “how the fuck did this happen?!” And, naturally, my third thought was “how can I be down?” Turns out, all I had to do to be down was stand around and let my tits do the talking. And the walking. And the wearing. And why wasn’t I told this before?!
Life in 32D has been totally different. I mean, life itself has been the same because my breasts don’t earn my paycheck (yet) but the joie de vivre has been a bit brighter these days. Two cup sizes brighter, to be exact. I’ve heard less attractive women say that looks aren’t everything, and I’ve always known they’re right, but I haven’t fully understood why. Until now. Looks aren’t everything–you have to think about breast size, too.
And on that–32Don’t you dare think it gets any better than this.