Dolly Parton no more (I think)

This is a girls' conversation, so if you're a man, I'm sorry, this doesn't pertain you because I'm going to talk about boobies. 

(ok, that was stupid, because if you're a man, now you're really going to stick around to see where this is going)

At ten years old I was a C cup. Kids followed me around and called me Dolly Parton. I went home crying. I cried to put on bathing suits. I didn't change in front of other little girls because they would point and laugh (see? I got bullied too, but you don't see me going around shooting people). My mom promised that if I'd still hated my breasts by fifteen years old, that she would schedule a breast reduction procedure.

At fifteen I was a D cup and loved every second of it. The rest of my body filled up too and I wore it proudly; maybe too proudly, because then my mom was trying to cover me up.

At twenty I moved to the US and I like to blame it on the hormones in the chicken (and not on donuts or McDonalds), for I became a size DD.

The minute I get pregnant, my bras felt snug and the lady at the store measuring my breasts says, "You are a 32E, but we don't carry those."

For those men hanging around reading this, the number 32 is the inches around the rib cage. In my case the ribs are petite but the rest of me is not. Do you know what kind of women have those measurements? Porn stars, and that's the kind of store I found online (slutty people stores) the concoction that could support this new and improved part of me. 

Leopard lace doesn't look particularly appropriate on a expecting woman, so I settled for sports bras. I never measured those things again, but I can only imagine the proportions they got when I was too engorged for even those sports bras.

Now that I am approaching golden boobies (one year of breast feeding, or breast pumping, in my case - yay, me!) I decided to finally give myself a gift of a new bra. 

The Victoria's Secrets lady measures me and says I am a 32DDD and that they don't carry my size. Off to the porn store we go.

I cannot WAIT not to be Dolly Parton any longer. On my son's birthday, when I will be done with using my boobs to make food, I may forgo all the balloons and bells and whistles and just celebrate with a big ol' bottle of wine. 

Cheers to smaller, normal boobies!