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03/17/2005: "Gotta be kidding me..."
I went to Victoria's Secret today with the mission of replacing one or two of my oldest bras (I bought the oldest ones when I was in high school!), and was told by the "bra specialist" that I'm a size 32D.
All I could do was gawk for a few minutes; I've always been pretty sure that I'm a 34C - but D cup breasts? Yow.
And people always wonder why I roll my eyes at women who get breast implants - I have big 'uns naturally, and they annoy me about 80% of the time. When I go jogging, I just about have to duct tape my chest to keep from bouncing (bouncing = muscle ripping). When I go clothes shopping, I find myself stuck in a limbo between shirt sizes because the smaller size is too tiny for my chest and the larger size is too big for the tiny rest of me. My cousin went up two bra sizes when she got pregnant - what the hell would happen to me? I'd be incapacitated. I don't get how Pamela Anderson and her type function. Whatever floats their boat, I guess, but I still think it's whack.