Let me tell you why.
To understand you have to go back almost 20 years exactly when yours truly started sprouting some boobies.
At the time when I was around 12 I got to about a B cup and stopped and even though I thought lingerie was glamorous and awesome I hated wearing bras and often stuffed my more tshirt than bra training bras into pockets, I'd tuck them into the pockets in the car, in my Dad's coat pockets. Anything to berid of them.
I kind of hovered at a big B cup almost C cup until I was 13 and they started to grow.
You would think someone was shooting me up with some kind of boob growth elixer because in less than one year I went from that not quite C cup to a DDD.
Absorb that for a moment. At 13 I was 5'0, not sure how much I weighed but my band size was a 33-34.
I don't want to talk about the trauma in detail but I will say that I was often in a lot of pain and gained a lot of weight mistakenly thinking that my body would somehow catch up in proportion. But it did not.
What did happen is at 14 years old and 5'1" and a pants size of about a 10 or so. I was an FF cup. I started having some horrifying and terrifying health problems. Inch deep grooves in my shoulders, difficulty breathing if I was reclined so I was unable to sleep on my back or lean at more than about a 90 degree angle.
But the most frightening and what I remember most vividly is waking up short of breath and having chest pains. Chest pains at 14 years old at one o'clock in the morning. When I could get some breath I remember stumbling into my parents room sobbing (which naturally made it harder to breath) and off to the ER we went.
It was thought that I was having a heart attack or other cardiac emergency based on a heart murmur I had as a baby and possible heart defects that just hadn't been caught. Imagine this.
Now as it turns out after many pediatric cardiologist visits this was not what happened.
(Please if you are squeamish SKIP THIS do not complain that I didn't warn you.)
What did happen is that the connective tissue beneath my breasts on my sternum tore. And was tearing from the ever increasing weight of my breasts.
Now my parents did not have a lot of money so we had to make do with bras from Kmart because I was out growing them at a rate of one a month.
What I remember on those trips is the humiliating walk past the jrs department, and the misses department to the old lady department. I had to wear these white or beige monstrosities of bras that always garnered raised eyebrows from catty retail employees. Comment from girls in gym class.
There is more but it's pretty horrible and I don't want to talk about it.
Then, my Mom found a pediatric reconstruction plastic surgeon who saved my life.
My parents insurance had deemed a breast reduction at my tender age to be merely cosmetic and we thought I was going to have to move to England with a family I hardly knew so I could get it done. But, my amazing doctor wrote a fairly substantial paper on my case and documented my plentiful health issues, took it to a North American conference and got enough other plastic surgeons on board with the idea the surgery was necessary to in essence blackmail the insurance company into paying.
So I got a reduction.
Initially I wanted cute small boobies like my Mom has. But the plastic surgeon explained that my broad shouldered, broad hipped build would make that a bit disproportionate. So I got a big full perky C cup.
I showed my new boobs to all my friends, to my family. I talked to other young patients about the surgery and the scars. I showed and had potential breast reduction patients feel my scars.
And then when I was all healed up, I went to JCPenny with my Mom and bought the most beautiful and delicate lavender lace bra. I cried. I cried when the bra fitter (a little granny who said I had "a lovely bosom") put a black satin demi cut bra on me.
I wept when I got a paisley print bra with matching panties.
I remember being in Victoria's Secret armed with a 25$ gift certificate and some pocket change and staring at myself in the mirror, a purple bra on and vowing, vowing with all the passion a 16 year old girl can muster that I would never -ever- wear a white or beige bra ever again.
Now I am almost 32 years old. I'm a little fatter than I was then. Instead of a 36C I'm a 39-40 DD (my boobs did grow a bit in my late teens/early 20's) and to this very day, I will not wear a white or beige bra.
I might wear gigantic granny panties that cover me from the bottom of my butt cheeks up to the band of my bra, I might wear tighty whities, I might wear orthopedic inserts (which I do) and not be able to sleep unless I've got some topical analgesic on my knees but god damn it.
GOD DAMN IT.
FUCK YO WHITE BRAS.
I mean that from the depths of my heart. I mean that for the poor 14 year old girl crying in Kmart because she had no choices. I mean that because I know how to dress my body now and don't have to wear clothes I hate. I mean that for ever ugly polyester piece of shit I had to wear.
I mean that for every time I have rocked a mile of cleavage held up by satin and lace or a torso molding there is no denying the boobies cleavage.
I mean it for the hot ass demi cut black bra I have on right now, with the little charm between the boobs.
This entry is brought to you by my casual bra shopping right now, my jiggling chocolate brown (actually the boobs are slightly lighter) cleavage that is a tad sweaty and smells quite nice, and brought to you by the letters DD.
No matter what kind of boobies you have, or that someone you love has, or that you just admire going down the street. Love them.
I love yours. Feel free to love mine. In a special tingle or just yay boobies are awesome kind of way.
And as is necessary, a picture of the boobs I love so much and suffered for.