Emma Johnson | The Perfect Fit

There we were in 5th-grade gym class, all of us facing the wall in the locker room. No one dared to shift their eyes to the left or right. Puberty had just begun and nobody wanted to face reality. Girls had started to wear training bras or sports bras as the end of the year drew near. Whispers floated around. Should we wear them to fit in? Better question, COULD we even fit into them? 

The summer before I started 6th grade, my mom came home one day with a slew of starting bras from Target. “Is it really that time?” I asked her. She nodded and said that it was a part of growing up. Slipping the elastic over my head, it already felt uncomfortable. There wasn’t an underwire poking me, no uneven straps to adjust. It didn’t feel right. I tried thinking of it like another shirt, but no matter which way I shifted, I couldn’t ignore it, no matter how hard I tried, like one of those itches you can’t scratch enough. Since there was nothing to support yet, it felt like a waste of money. The more I wore them, the more I forgot I was wearing one. While starter bras weren’t military grade training, it was just the beginning of what I would endure. 

After a year or two of adjusting to the starter bra scene, I felt more pain in my chest. Not the heart attack pains, but just right where my breasts ought to be. I didn’t feel the need to take any Advil; I was a woman who was capable of pushing out my breasts without needing some meds. The ache would last for a day and then fade away, waiting for another inopportune time to strike. My breasts were picky; they never wanted to ache at the same time. It’s as if God scheduled them long before puberty hit me. “The left can have Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and the right can have Wednesdays and Fridays. The right can also have Saturdays once a month, but for the most part, let the girl have weekends off.” 

Years of having simple bras passed by. The training bras eventually were disposed of and traded out for sports bras or bras that hooked in the front with bunched fabric composed of an underwire. These made do and I didn’t mind them at all. My breasts were larger than most of my friends, but I didn’t think I needed an actual bra. When we would change in gym, girls would wear bras from PINK or even Victoria’s Secret, but I wasn’t interested in diving into the mystery that Victoria was hiding. Life for my breasts seemed great until my godfather Douglas came along. 

Back from Florida with his “marvelous” advice, at dinner one night, he commented saying that I had a “uniboob.” I commented that those two round inserts clearly dictated that I had two breasts. “There needs to be a distinction between the two,” he told me. Clearly, he was unaware that my breasts already separate like the Red Sea when I sleep in a tank top, so why should I keep the party going during the day? I gave in, knowing that he wouldn’t let the subject go, so a day was arranged to shop like a woman. 

The next day, we went to JCPenney’s to shop for bras. While I walked through the lingerie aisle, wanting to shrink into my skin and have the ground open up, my godfather walked through there with the confidence of a TV show host. He asked for an assistant to measure me. Having a tape measure thrown around my chest was no big deal. She’d tell me my size and we could select a few bras and leave. When she told me I was a 36DD, I was stunned. No wonder my chest hurt so damn bad. Thanks to my genetic pool, (specifically my great-grandma and aunt) I have to carry the weight of skipping a few generations.  

The attendant selected about five bras with styles and colors I liked and gave me a changing room. Doing the old hook-in-the-front-and turn-around trick, the first bra tried to contain my untamable breasts, but only to have the cornucopia runneth over. As I was taking off the second and putting on the third, the attendant jiggled the door handle, asking how they were fitting and if she could come in to help me out. I was anxious, saying that they weren’t fitting and I was doing well on my own, but she was persistent. I couldn’t crawl over the walls; I was cornered. After a few more minutes of pestering, I reluctantly let her into the changing room with about ten more bras that she had selected. We developed a system where she could help me out, but she never had to see anything. I would face the mirror, holding a bra in my hands and she would hook them up for me behind me. Wash, rinse, repeat.   

At the end of the hour and a half, I was drowning in bras. They sat at my feet. They filled the hooks. They were piled on the chair. When I said, she was good and didn’t have to bring in anymore, she would bring in three more. Talk about exceeding the limit to how many items you could have in a changing room. I’m surprised the dressing room door didn’t vomit bras when the door opened. Out of the hundreds, there were about five bras that I really liked. Most were neutral and t-shirt bras, but two were more special. With lace on the upper top and fabric on the lower point, I understood what I was missing out on. At one point, while wearing one of the lace bras, the attendant asked me, “Do you mind?” Before I could even respond, she reached into my bra and adjusted my boob. All I could do was stand there awkwardly. I thought my first time being felt up without a bra on would happen with a guy I liked in some future intimate moment. In reality, it was in a 4×4 dressing room by a Mexican woman with bras around my feet. Eventually, I said that enough was enough, and I grabbed the five out of a million that I liked and walked out.  

Ever since I started wearing bras with underwire, (“real bras” as my godfather calls them) they haven’t caused me much trouble. They feel so comfortable and I can hardly tell that I’m wearing one in the first place. My confidence shoots up with my breasts; when everything is high and lifted, everything feels great. And while it may look great, it isn’t always bliss. 

All of my friends have commented on how large my chest is and how much they envy me because of it. I’m here to tell you the facts: having large breasts is not all that it seems. There are so many issues that we have to deal with that the benefits are just specks of happiness. The only good thing I can see to come out of it is possible cushioning if I run into something. We also won’t be the first to drown at sea with our own personal buoys. Some clothes are more flattering, such as strapless dresses. They’re big girls; they can stand up by themselves, but if you decide to jump, there had better be some tape to secure them in place.  

 Most girls don’t know how lucky they are! They have more energy because they don’t have bowling balls strapped to them. Exercising is difficult because we are constantly worried about a black eye hitting us in the face. I would love to jog a 5k but if my sports bra slips, it looks like I attended the latest Fight Club meeting. They have larger bank accounts as they can save money by not having to buy flower pots for their blossoming bosoms. You have to buy larger shirts in order to contain them which usually cost an extra dollar or two. Before you think about getting breast augmentation, consider the fact that you are living the dream.  

No matter what cup size you have, or what style of bra you want to wear, find the perfect fit for you. As long as you have the confidence to take on what the world gives you, always remember what’s on the inside (of your shirt) that defines you.