It’s time to come clean.
My name is Natalie. I am flat chested.
This beautiful Plenty by Tracy Reese top is not for me. I thought it was. I really wanted it to be. I really really really wanted it to be. And while it is BRAND NEW and has NEVER BEEN WORN, it has been tried on…many times…with every bra I own(ed)…in front of every mirror in my house…examined from every possible angle, trying to make it work somehow, which it won’t...not without a miracle or some serious surgical intervention. This top was meant to be worn by someone with a cup size larger than aa...and that ain’t me.
My mom said I was just a late bloomer. At the start of each school year, as I would lament how every other girl in the class had a nice chest growing already, mom would say enthusiastically “I think this is really going to be your year!” Which was invariably followed up every spring with an optimistic “Hey, there’s always next year!” Next year, my ass! (Speaking of which, I, ironically, have ample. My booty to boobie ratio leaves no doubt as to whether or not God has a sense of humor.)
My chesty friends tried to convince me that I was lucky, that at least I wasn’t hounded daily by hormonal, pimply, awkward boys who could best express their adoration with ill-rhyming taunts. But I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Knockers, hooters, melons, cha-chas, jugs, yayas, kazongas, Pointer Sisters, tom-toms, hoohas, moo moos, milk cans, snuggle pups, duelling banjos, love melons, fog lights, pompoms, zeppelins….all music to my ears….oh, how I yearned to hear one of these words thrown in my direction! And let there be no mistake about it.: I am not SMALL chested, I am FLAT chested. I didn’t even elicit jokes of mosquito bites or wearing band aids instead of bras. With my super stealth chest, I was completely under the radar. Even the cruelest of boys in junior high would just look and my chest and say “oh” with a look of sympathy-tinged resignation, as even they had enough heart not to kick someone who is really down.
Despite my fleshy dreams and aspirations, I knew long ago that surgery was not for me. I instead spent the equivilent amount of money on bras. Gel filled bras that move as if real breasts lived there. Water bras that give a little more jiggle than the gel. Bras so heavily padded that I would have surely survived a stab wound to the chest without so much as a scratch, my imagined attacker aghast as the knife pulled out covered not in blood but little bits of foam.
You would think bra designers understood that these padded, gelled, aquatic bras were not being sold to women who already filled their cup size. I was constantly amazed at the generous cup INSIDE the padded structure….sheesh, if I could have filled that I would not be buying this bra in the first place! It felt weird to have these two empty chest pockets and as I tend to be a sucker for practicality, I hated to see all that wasted space. I had to kick the habit of not carrying a purse when I saw the look of horror on my friends faces as I pulled out of my bra not only my keys, but my money, id, a lipstick and some breath mints. It seemed so efficient at the time.
So I have finally come to terms with the fact that I will not have the chest I dream of having…not in this lifetime at least. I am 36 and as of yet, have not heard of anyone “blooming” this late in life. One by one, I am auctioning off all my blouses that I bought when I was still a determined, delusional dreamer. Big breasted? Ample chested? Bid on this blouse, and when you win, wear it loud and wear it proud!
Since I have decided to go au natural and embrace the body I’ve got, the time had come to say goodbye to all those bras as well. I thought of selling them on ebay but they were a bit worn (a bit…HA!)…plus I wanted to mark the occasion somehow, not as a sad and long overdue coming to terms with reality, but something with a little more thunder…I wanted a feeling of liberation! So I decided to have a good old-fashioned bra burning instead. I was hoping for something big and symbolic: flaming bras joining together to make a roaring fire. I wanted this to be a lifelong memory, something akin to a Kiss concert, complete with pyrotechnics, costumes, face make-up and screaming fans. Once again my hopes fell flat. Instead I watched the bras smolder and melt, with more smoke than fire. It was less Kiss and more lone, nerdy trumpet player eking out a weak, off-key TAPS.
It was pathetic. Yet typical. I’m sure the water bras didn’t help.
Plenty by Tracy Reese 100% silk top. Size 12. Gathered tie at empire waist (also known as "just below bust" on some) and elastic at wrists. Beautiful blouse, absolutely beautiful.