Are you there,God? It's me ,Lyndsay.

Since the time I knew what boobs were- I wanted them. Lots of them. Huge, turgid, voluptuous breasts spilling forth from my third grade training bra was all that I thought about. The image consumed me. So much so that I resorted to the ever secretive stuffing. Like a Christmas Goose, I jammed and fluffed, stuffed and jabbed creating the illusion ( however poor) that I too had breasts. Maybe it was me grasping at womanhood.....or just trying to fill out a Bcup...but my life was unsatisfactory without the sloping curve of a sizable bust.
One day, when a stuffing malfunction gave away my secretly flat chest, my father said to me "more then a mouthful is too much". Now, besides the fact that this comment is far from constructive fatherly advice- he did have a point. After this traumatic- yet eye opening conversation- I decided to accept my breasts...the slight hadfull that they had become over my 18 years. No one had ever complained that they were not adequate, so why should I fuss?Life continued as always. Marriage, graduations, new jobs all distracted me from the thought of breasts. Bills piled up, friends moved, love waxed and waned all without the need to know my cup size. I made the occassional joke about being small breasted , but people would just awkwardly laugh and look away. I never understood why they were so uncomfortable and were so passionate about persuading me of my more than adeqaute endowment. I chalked this up to pity.Untill, that is, a recent trip to Victoria's Secret.
Bra shopping is ussually uneventfull you pull your size off the shelf , pick the style that you like, and wander to the dressing room to insure your purchase will fit. Not this day. Oh no..... I found a lovely demi cup bra with little sea green bows. Delicate, yet functional and proceeded to the dressing room. I stripped off my shirt, unhooked my bra and slid the straps off my shoulders- momentarily noticing what a relief it was to be braless. I picked up my potential buy and slid the 36 B bra up and onto my chest.
I reached around to clasp it shut- and something strange happened: I struggled. I began again and this time fought and held my breath to get it clasped.Victory!!! I turned towards the mirror. Oddly, nmot only did my breasts spill out the top AND bottom of the cup but my armpits seemed to well up and consume the straps. I took my cupped hands and attempted to tame my breasts. Forcing them, to no avail, to stay in this new bra. I convinced myself that this phenomena was just relugated to this type amd style of bra.
I returned to the sales floor , and again to the dressing room time after time only to discover the same problem. After an hour of this repeating pilgrimage, crying, sweating anf wondering what breast warp I had fallen into, a saleswoman- with a kind face stopped me. After some coaxing, she got me to talk.l I told her the tale that I am now telling you-- the tale of wishing, denial, and finally acceptance of my small breasts. She took one look at me and screamed in laughter.
"Honey", she said " If your flat chested, then I'm the Sainted Mother Theresa of Calcutta." And that my friends is how I got my breasts. That day I found my D cups in the eyes of a saleswoman, old and wrinkled, draped in measuring tape. She gently measured me and pointed me to the right path...the path of huge breasts.