I have big boobs. For those of you who know me, that’s as aphoristic as it gets.
I don’t like having them; if it were up to me, I’d have a nice set of Bs, maybe small Cs. I desperately wish that reduction surgery was a covered procedure under my medical plan. Even though I’m scared to death of being anesthetized, I think I’d butch up and deal with it if it meant that I could wake up with average-sized babylons.
Clothes shopping sucks on many different fronts. One of those is the Hobbit Legs front. I am hovering around the five foot mark, so it’s difficult for me to find pants that don’t completely devour my little legs. “Use a tailor!” you say, with your 5’7″ body and perfect 32″ inseam. “Fuck off!” I say. The women’s fashion industry needs to take a tip from the men’s and create trousers that come in a variety of inseams, not just waist sizes. Also, have you ever taken anything to a tailor? No, you haven’t, because you’re 5’7″ and perfect and are therefore blissfully unaware of the fact that tailoring pants often costs half as much as buying the damn things in the first place. Thanks, but I’d rather pay my mortgage and car note than spend $187.50 on one lousy pair of pants.
Then there’s the stupid, Massive Rack front, always lurking and skulking about and rearing its ugly head every time I step into a fitting room. Adorable little tops with spaghetti straps or cute little V-necks? Say hello to painful lack of support and/or inappropriate cleavage. Summery little sundresses? Not unless you want to look like someone who accidentally left the house in their nightgown. Clean, classic button-up shirts? Not yours. Cannot have.
Those are the worst of all — those bastard button-up shirts. I am completely incapable of wearing one unless I have the thing disassembled at the tailor and put back together, bionic-shirt style. A medium shirt will fit me on the lower torso, but I would need an extra-large to fit the upper torso (also known as the boobage area). I can’t even come close to buttoning a medium over my chest; I’m afraid the buttons would shoot off and blind some poor passer-by. On the other hand, while an extra-large fits comfortably over my chest, the bottom half of my torso looks like it’s been draped with a circus tent. That’s when I start to get even angrier at the women’s fashion industry; as I undress, glowing with anger, I wonder why on earth they think that every single woman in America has the exact same cup and band size. Shoes come in sizes. Watchbands are adjustable. BRAS come in sizes, for God’s sake. WHY NOT SHIRTS? Why is it that a “small” immediately signifies a 32AAA chest? Or that an “extra-large” means you’ve got 36DDs?
Oh, God. I’m sorry. That spiraled into a rant really quickly. Anyway…
So, I was in Old Navy today, looking for some work shirts. I was close to the dreaded button-up shirt section when I saw an extremely cute, white button-up with what looked like darting in all the right places AND the bosom looked like it would actually fit me. I was overjoyed. I grabbed it in a medium and grabbed the blue one behind it for good measure.
As I buttoned up the white shirt in the fitting room, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. It fit; it actually fit. And it fit really well. The bottom half was still a little tent-y, but it was nothing that tucking the shirt in wouldn’t hide. The top half fit neatly and perfectly over my chest and the clever darting underneath meant that my torso didn’t look like a shapeless mess; the girls were supported and tastefully accented without being trashy. I was in button-up heaven. With ideas in my head of buying one of these miracle shirts in every color, I quickly tore it off to try on the blue one.
Hmm. The blue one is a bit snugger as my fingers work the buttons upwards. Hmm. Very snug. Wait a second…I can’t button this bitch to save my life! What the fuck?
I yanked the shirt off and stared at it, the Judas Iscariot of Old Navy button-up shirts. Your little white friend worked — why don’t you? You have the same clever little darting! The same collar and cuffs! The same…oh. I see. Your label says “Classic Button Front Shirt.” And your little white friend’s label says
The shame hit me like a ton of tiny, tiny babies. I fit perfectly…into a maternity shirt. Yes, it was poufy in the midsection, but — MATERNITY, Y’ALL. MADE FOR GIGANTIC, ABOUT-TO-FEED-A-BABY BOOBS. I threw both of the shirts down in horror and made a beeline for the exit.
A tailor doesn’t seem so bad all of a sudden.