I’ve never been what you’d call a busty girl. In fact, I’ve never even had a “bust.”
All my life, I’ve been a barely-there A-cup, and for the most part, I’ve truly enjoyed my membership in the itty-bitty titty committee. Sure, there were some things that I could never hope to wear – even with the support of push-up bras, chicken cutlets and other devices used to create the illusion of a gravity-defying bosom, but I just always chose to wear things that highlighted my other assets. Like my sexy – dare I say enviable? – collarbones. My long neck and my tiny waist. My long legs. And a really great ass.
(Clearly, humility is not among my other assets. 😀 )
I have owned the same four bras for the last ten-plus years. How is this even possible? you may wonder. Easy. With such a small chest, there often isn’t a need to wear one, so my bras (and my boobs) have maintained their shape. As my pregnancy has progressed, I still haven’t worn one, but not because of the aforementioned aversion to them. For the first time in the history of man, my bras don’t fit. Not only that, I have cleavage.
After I took this photo, I sent it to the boy via text message. I won’t re-print his full response, but when he called later, he did say the words, “very nice” and “wow.” I think there even have been a “thank you, Lord,” and possibly some weeping.