Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Embracing the Third D - Epilogue

The call came.  JC Penney had my new bra.  The G.  The big freakin G!  Still daunted, still overwhelmed that my tits are actually a size G, I sheepishly went to the catalog department to pick it up. 

I was convinced that this was all a big mistake.  Big being the operative word here.   It had to be.  My name is not Busty McGee, so how on earth could I really have a G cup.  WTF is a G cup?   Who even knew the G cup existed?  It doesn't seem possible to me.  Granted, I know I've got the goods.  But a G?  I clearly can't get over it, so I chose denial.  It's a mistake.  Booby Bonnie was just a little too titillated when she was sizing me.  That had to be it.  Bored with sizing the usual 36 C's, she saw in me her crowning moment.  She was going to achieve boobaledge glory at my expense.  So she blurted out the first letter that came to her mind.  G. She gave me the Grand Teton's.  And when I received this bra, I was going to be swimming it.  It was going to be so huge, I convinced myself, that I would go back to Booby Bonnie tell her she was wrong!   I am not a G and I'll go back to my Triple D thank you very much! 

My bra was in a plain white wrapper, like I was buying something dirty.  And I felt dirty.  "G, G, G" I kept hearing in my head as I quickly walked out of the store and to my car.  "G, G, G."  It haunted me.  I came home, opened the package and looked at the monstrosity that lie inside.  It's black, and it's lacy, but it is ginormous.   I laughed when I saw it.  "No way is this going to fit," I thought out loud.  No way.  My tits are going to be dwarfed.  I'll feel tiny for the first time since I was picked on mercilessly by the boys in school for having no breasts whatsoever.  I was a late bloomer.  I didn't get my hooters until I was out of school, just my luck.  Dateless and Titless is what my nickname should have been in high school. 

Shaking my head and telling myself I'll try it on just to prove Booby Bonnie wrong, I put it on.  Damn her!  The bitch was right.  I'm a fucking G cup!  The damn thing fits like a glove.  I shimmied right into it and they looked proud, perky and a little smug.  I'm a G.  I'm a G and I'm slowly getting to a place where I feel less horror about it and more pride.  I'm a G dammit!

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Embracing the Third D - Part II

As my luck has been odd lately, I ended up winning a free bra from JC Penney.  I apparently signed up for this contest when I was there with mom before Mother's Day and we had gotten sized.  I don't remember doing this, but a free bra is a free bra.

When we get there, the girl who sized us last time was not there and girl who was decided she wanted to size me again to be sure before I picked a bra out.  That's any bra in the store.  Sweet.  I planned on picking one that was really expensive.  I looked around a little and found a zebra striped bra that had my name all over it.  Unfortunately it didn't have my size all over it. So I continued looking.  I knew I wanted black because well, most of my bras are black.  I have the one obligatory white bra for when I wear something light colored, which is almost never.  But I have it.

Off to the dressing room I go with Booby Bonnie, the most gung ho bra sizer ever.  And after I lift my top and show her what I've got, she starts pulling up and yanking down and tightening and adjusting every aspect of the harness I'm wearing.  Well look at that, Booby Bonnie knows her shit because my girls are actually looking high and perky!   But then she slaps me with the bad news.  After a few measurements and a few adjustments she informs me that I'm not a DDD, but I'm a G.  Yes, a G.  You heard me.  A fucking G!!!!!

I am all at once impressed and mortified.  A G?  Who the fuck is a G?  Mom isn't even a G and she had huge tits.  Wait, that means I have huger tits than mom?  How is this possible?   A fucking G!  What does G even mean... Ginormous?  Gigantor?  Gargantuan?  Sheesh I'm not a porn star.  I'm not a model for Big Tits magazine.  I'm just me, all natural, going about my every day life, having made peace with a DDD.  I don't think I can make peace with a G.  It's too daunting.  It's overwhelming.  And now all I can imagine is my tits arriving 5 minutes before the rest of me wherever I go.  I'm going to have nightmares that my whole being is one giant tit.  G.  I feel so dirty....  Hmm, maybe it's not as bad as I think after all.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Embracing the Third D

It's not my favorite thing to do.  In fact it's one of my least favorite things to do.  Going to the mall.  I hate mall shopping.  I hate being attacked by perfume snipers.  I hate the crowds.  I hate rude people, er, people in general.  I hate the whole experience and do my best to never ever go to malls.  But, it's Mother's Day weekend and being without funds to buy my mom a suitable gift, I gave her the gift of my time and told her we could do whatever she wanted.  Much to my dismay, she chose going to the mall.  I had small glimmers of hope that she would opt to go to a movie (Kill the Irishmen is still in theaters after all and I have gift cards) or maybe to Gallucci's in Cleveland, the greatest Italian store in all the land.  Nope.  She wanted to go to the mall.

Resigned to my fate, off to the mall we went.  Previously, I had asked mom to watch her sale circulars for when a bra fitter would be at one of the department stores.  They aren't always there and usually if one is going to be around, they will advertise it.  I've been wanting to get accurately sized because I noticed my bras are anything but accurate.  I have several bras of varying sizes and they range from so tight I'm spilling out, to far too big and you can fit another boob in there with me.  And wouldn't you know, when we walked into JC Penney there was a sign that said a bra fitter was in the store today.  Off we went to get fitted.  As soon as we got into the dressing room, a promo came over the loud speaker "Get fitted for bras with Mom this Mother's Day!"  Nice, our Mother's Day activity has now been announced to all the shoppers in JC Penney.

It started out nice enough.  Our fitter was a sweet young gal who genuinely wanted to help.  But once in the dressing room, to say she was overwhelmed by her task would probably be an understatement.   Those who know me know my tits pretty much have their own address.  Mom's are even bigger.  I think they may even have their own gravitational pull.  And as I suspected, the size I had been buying was wrong.  But I didn't realize how wrong I really was.  I've suddenly been thrust from a large but manageable DD to a huge and daunting DDD.  The fitter, noticing my horror at this information quickly tried to cover her tracks by saying sizing is not an exact science and that she's not trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves.  I kind of felt like shit then, like I made her think it was her fault that my tits are so huge.  I told her not to worry and that if anyone is to blame for my ginormous chest, it's mom, to which mom just shrugged. Seriously what could she do?  She didn't have a tit to stand on, it is her fault.  Her and her damn genes.

Our fitter went out to the store floor to find us two new bras in our new more accurate sizes.  I told her to make sure she doesn't give my mom or myself torpedo tits.  Seriously there is nothing worse than torpedo tits.  What she came back with, to my skewed vision of what I now would be wearing, looked like this:

And when I put it on, it felt like that too.  A big giant utilitarian monstrosity.  No pretty demi bra with lace and possibly zebra stripes.  Nope, this is stark white, with four hooks, reinforced straps, and covers me from cleavage to belly button practically.  It's horrible.  I can't decide if I want to cry or scream or just curse my tits into submission.  And then I remembered something that made me feel a little better.  The boys sure do dig 'em.  So there ya go.  A triple D is for me, but I'll find something better than the bra that ate JC Penney thank you very much.