Of Course I Don't Know My Bra Size
There’s a few universal truths in the world: you’ll never get both eyeliner wings to match if you’re late for a party, if somebody texts that they are fifteen minutes away they have not yet left the house, and there’s no way in hell you know your bra size.
Since the moment I had breasts---which grew from my chest in seventh grade like two blobfish looking to make button-down shirts a challenge---I’ve been incorrect about my bra size. If somebody even asks me what my bra size is, which has only left the mouths of perverts, drunk friends, and my mother, I don’t say anything. I just bleat, like a goat, and wiggle my chest and eyebrows in the same time. Why say anything? I’m wrong. You’re wrong. We’re all wrong about my bra size, and her bra size, and everybody’s bra size! You get a wrong bra! You get a wrong bra!
The closest answer I have to this conundrum: 34D. I’ve long considered this to be one of the SEXIEST number and letter combinations one can imagine, considering a lot of people go wild for it. Awooooooga! How could I ever forget, even with some pesky back pain, that we are a society that finds breasts attractive, always subconsciously yearning to be breast-fed again, always gravitating towards the feelings of being safe and fresh out of the womb! HONK HONK!
The truth is, I don’t care if you find my floppos attractive or unattractive. Why would I want to know this? Why would I feel better if men find the bulbous rounds of fat on my chest cavity sexually pleasing? That shit won’t help me find the right bra size, and it certainly won’t make flowy shirts look effortless and chic on me. People even confuse them with mountains! So shut up about my breast size, unless you’re a scientist who has an answer for me about the right bra to wear when you want to go for a run without holding yourself in a half-hug.
But back to 34D. This is completely an estimate. What I can tell you is that 34D is actually my knee size, which is where my strapless bra ends up every time I wear one. My knees are a busty 34D. My chest is probably something like a 30FFF, given that my ribcage is small but my breasts are like two BOO ghosts from the Mario games, hungry and malleable and sloppy and flying around everywhere, scaring some along the way.
All I really know is what I’m not: a 34C. Or a 34DD. Those are two bra sizes I have previously bought, and they are outrageously wrong. Doesn't mean I haven't worn them for years, but okay. When I wore the 34C all through high school, I thought “you know, I think breasts are probably supposed to look like stress balls when you wear a bra.” The cleavage popping out of my bra like a balloon ready to pop was just the kind of thing that happened. The 34DD was amusing, and while I enjoyed being able to place bags of chips, my wallet, and leftover crumbs in the cups while I was wearing it, I assume this is also why I have a purse and pockets.
You could say I did learn something from it: If you really want to know your bra size, simply wear every single size that exists in the universe for a day or two, for the rest of your life, until you become a bag of bones. Wear one particular ill-fitting bra until you turn on the television and a woman is on a Good Morning America show, telling the audience “most people don’t know their bra size.” Then you go buy a new one. And continue. If you find one that fits, what the hell do you know? The women on the television know all, and they’re saying you’re an idiot. Because while nobody is wearing the correct bra, there is still a cavalry of women who appear on The View and Good Morning America, telling us about it.
Can this be fixed? No. Not really. I do admit I had a rebellious stage a few months back, during the summer, where I bought a SIZE LARGE Champion sports bra from Target and wore it for weeks straight. I liked that they flattened my breasts a bit, like Thora Birch did when she taped them down in the film Now and Then. It made me feel like I could wear tight t-shirts and not feel self-conscious, or like I had stolen two Edison bulbs from a trendy restaurant and stored them in my shirt between charcuterie plates. Yet, when I visited my mother, she stared at my breasts: you know you’re wearing the wrong bra size?
And so I am. Whenever I turn on the television and the Victoria’s Secret semi-annual bra sale is on, with the models writhing around, I want to throw up. I can’t drop 65 bucks on something that is wrong for me! Why are bras always wrong and so expensive? Are they called angels because you can only find the right bra size in heaven, when you’re finally dead?
I don’t think I’ll ever find the right bra size. I will be waiting for it like Godot. Don’t cry for me, though. I have a few racerback ones that do all right, even if they smush everything in the middle and I sweat there. That'll do, pig. And perhaps I will always be searching, crawling, and flopping towards an answer that won’t exist. But perhaps there is also beauty in the breakdown.
Because lest we forget of the other universal truths: never trust a tweet from an egg avatar, pizza will solve any problem, you don't need to wash your bra that often, and there’s no better feeling than getting home and hastily removing your bra, freeing it from its oppressive, ill-fitting hats.
Wrong size and all.