A Love Letter To My Boobs


Dear boobs,

Thank you for being nothing short of perfect.

You were really great when you were a small, grabbable 34B. I could walk faster, for one, and cute bras were easier to find. I thought you were extra-awesome.

But now you’re a 32D … and in Agent Provocateur, which you so stupidly purchased as a “present” for yourself, you might be almost a 34DD.

Where did this boobage come from? I’m not complaining because it’s awesome! I’m just not sure how I woke up one morning with giant boobs. OK, not giant – I have friends with Hs and Fs. But “considerably larger than they were before.” I didn’t gain much weight nor did I change birth control, two surefire ways to get bigger boobs. I just woke up one morning with big boobs! I didn’t even pray about them like Katy Perry did.

And I LOVE THEM. I can’t run very well, but I was not into running anyway so this is a great excuse. I hate the feeling of being straightjacked in a sports bra. I am too much girl to go running without everything jiggling and bouncing around.

After the boobage appeared seemingly overnight, I finally went in and got properly fitted for a bra, and my world changed. I can’t recommend doing that enough – and don’t go to Victoria’s Secret. Go somewhere where they know what they’re doing, and you’ll see a whole new world.

My boobs are perky, firm and full. They’re perfect. I have shitty skin and frizzy hair, so you know what? I’m gonna brag about them. I am PROUD of my rack. They fill out the cups of my bra just so, and I can cup them exactly right in each hand. I’m a 32D, which means I’m small around and large in the bust. I’d be happy if they grew another cup size, but I’m happy with them anyway.

I mean, I can’t wear those cute, skimpy bralettes. Peekaboo tank tops don’t work on me. I’ll never be able to wear the “model off duty” look. Certain necklines don’t either. But I don’t care, because I am obsessed with my tits. They look awesome in a snug sweater, a pencil dress, a bikini top. They fill out certain silhouettes perfectly. A tight T-shirt is heaven on earth. Certain things just look better on girls with boobs. A button-down shirt is a no-go – they fit in the body and not in the boobs, or vice versa – and certain things look borderline pornographic.

I protect them – I treat them like jewels. I moisturize them, rub them down with coconut oil. I even wear sunblock (which I NEVER do) on them so they stay wrinkle-free as long as possible.

And boys? Boys lose their damn minds when I send them a picture of my rack. Good lighting only enhances their glory; they look luminous and golden. I get good deals at the auto shop because of my strategic leaning and bending. When a dude is lucky enough to cup these babies in his palms, sometimes I think I hear angels singing in his head.

So thanks, boobs. I appreciate you. I just wanted you to know. NEVER LEAVE ME.