Mutant

I guess I should have seen it coming. There were plenty of signs. The way my bras were digging into my skin. The strange indentations on my chest at the end of the day. The bad looks I got at the gym. I know those looks. I've given them before. That look that oozes venom. The pointed stare at the bouncing girls that just screams disgust. It's like being in high school...only worse.

But I couldn't help it - I thought - I'm trying to run.

Of course the kicker should have been when my friend yelled in the middle of the office "How do you fit those watermelons in a size small?!?!"

Regardless, I didn't pick up on the signals. I didn't listen to the murmurs (though apparently it was quite the topic among the men) and I didn't see the stares. So when I walked into Victoria Secret I wasn't prepared.

I was in a strange mood for Katy. I wanted to go shopping. I felt like looking at stuff and trying things on. This is rare and it was exciting to go off on my own and indulge in pure girly-ness. Victoria Secret is my favorite. It smells good in there and everything feels nice. I like running around and coo-ing over the latest cute set. The fun and flirty thongs. The new corsets. I like being in a store that screams curves and sexy and flirt. I flutter from rack to rack, looking at the mannequins and drooling over the lace and sequins. FUN!

I went in armed with push-ups and push-togethers. Side straps and tube straps. Convertibles, invisibles, demi, full. Silky, lacy, skin. I had my favorites picked out and was ready to finally face the mirror - sure that one of them would give me the exact shape I like. Round, but perky. And all in a size 36C.

But something was wrong. For some reason instead of round I was getting slightly oblong. Instead of full and perky, my breasts looked strangled. Smushed. Like they were trying to escape.

No girls, we have to wear a bra...it's the 21st century...we can't get away with that free-hanging stuff anymore.

But try as I might. Adjusting and pulling and prodding, they would not stay in the cup. Help!

I bit my lip as the very tiny girl measured me. It'll be okay I thought. So what if I've gained an inch or two. I'll get a few 38's and then hit the row-machine. Back to 36 in no time. It's perfectly normal to grow a little.

"36!" She counted the inches. "Oh but you definitely need to be in a D cup."

"A what cup?"

"You're definitely a D. Want to try something with a little more support?" She asked helpfully. I personally think she sounded a little too cheery.

I tried it on anyway. It fit. It was perfect in fact. Full, round, comfortable. And big. Seriously...all I could see were the twins. Nothing else. I ceased to have a body or a head, I was just a inconsequential transport for two big boobs. I felt like a boob.

But I was game. I went out looking for all those cute things I liked before in my new size. I mean why not? Everyone wants big breasts right? Plastic surgeons make millions every year by giving women larger sizes. I got mine naturally. I'm lucky right?

I was until I noticed that I couldn't find D's in any of the styles I liked. No bra-tops in D's. No Ipex, no second skin.

"Do you need some help finding something?" "Oh, you have to look in the drawers for that size." The drawers? Previously the drawers in Victoria Secret were only needed to find the odd colors. Like passion-berry and hot-green. I didn't need a hot-green bra. Not that I wouldn't mind it. But still...it's hot green.

"Right, we don't have D's in this style. Are you sure you want a demi?" "So which color did you need...flesh or black?" I looked around. Everywhere the mannequins were covered in fun colors and flirty lace. Pink and red and purple. Colors I love. Colors I like to put on under boring work clothes and know to myself that I am wearing a purple and pink lace bra underneath...and it's my little secret. Then I looked at the small drawer of D's...in styles I used to see my mother wear...and colors that were as boring as my husbands underwear.

It was all I could do not to burst into tears.

Overdramatic? Maybe. But this idea that society puts pressure on women to be big-breasted is a bunch of bullshit. Show me the store where the mannequins are a full C-cup? Show me where in the mall a woman with full breasts and full hips can by a t-shirt that doesn't stretch to bursting over her boobs. Show me the non-maternity wear dresses that don't either smush or bunch over a round front. Show me all that and I'll show you a bridge I have for sale.

Gone are the fun colors and the flirty sets. Gone are the cute t-shirts and fun tops. Gone gone gone.

But I have plenty of breast to spare.