My breasts grew today. I don’t feel like there is any big surprise here – I’m a well endowed girl. Always have been. In the past, I have used words like — “scaffolding” and “sausage casing” to explain the undergarments I wear to make them look smaller or higher or just to keep them from swinging and bouncing all over the place.

Early in our adult lives as women we get these numbers that explain our bodies. “I wear a size 6 shoe.” or “I wear a size 8 dress.” or “I am 5′4”.” Once you get those labels – the become permanently etched in your mind. Every time I shop or buy clothes I use those sizes (numbers that are so old I can’t even remember where I first got them), as a guiding point. I go right to the rack with — “large”. I never look at medium clothes, and I sometimes secretly hope I don’t have to look at the XL clothes. Regardless of how it feels or looks I just know — “I’m a size 12”. I will buy almost anything that has a tag with a size smaller than 12 just because I want it to say – size 10. It could be a tent or a parachute – but if it says size 8 on the tag and I can squeeze my body into it? It’s mine.

It’s so silly. The numbers that I let define me. And if, god forbid, I try something on and I need to get “a larger size” I can actually feel it cut at my self-esteem. I have to watch that, how much I let my physical shape define my soul, define my identity. Of course, I also have to be careful because the opposite is also true – if the size goes down – I feel am a “better” person.

Here’s the story. . .

I go to Victoria Secret today to buy a bra. Which of course, everyone knows is a wonderful experience. I mean underwear shopping is only second to, say, a root canal. I go in and walk amid lacy, transparent, rope lingerie. I just want to get to the back of the store where they have the “big” bras. They put the small, silky, lacy underwear in the front window, and the big girls in the back. I didn’t want to talk with salespeople about their promotions or sign up for the company card. Just get in, pay too much money for something no one sees but me, and then come home.

When I arrive, soaked from the rain, it’s a straight shot to the “full coverage” section. I get to the rack (pardon the pun) and a saleswoman comes up to greet me. I’m just thinking — “dear god, please don’t let her be too perky. Just give me a bra, and get out of here.”

Surprisingly, she is cool. Complaining about how Victoria Secret already has their Christmas stuff out, and teases that if she sees another pink panty she might shoot someone – needless to say, I’m in love with her. She then suggests, that she measure me to make sure I’m purchasing the right bra size. Now, I can feel the panic begin to sink in. I know, just know, that she is going to tell me my breasts are – EVEN BIGGER than I think they are.

She measures me, and they are in fact bigger (well, I need a bigger size at least). She says that almost all of the women she measures are squeezing themselves into bras that are too small. So she gives me a bra box. Victoria Secret has a bra box which includes every style of bra that Victoria Secret sells, so you can try them all on without having to grab from around the store. It’s Genius.

Anyway, I bought a couple of the Ipex bras which apparently have space age technology that can launch my breasts into space or end communism if they wanted. They are $50 each. As far as I’m concerned that is highway robbery, but it looks nice and it’s really soft.

Later on. . .

I wrote the majority of this post yesterday immediately following my shopping errand. I normally consider myself to be a strong – even feminist woman, but if I had read the words above written by another woman I would feel sorry for her. Sorry that she is ashamed of her body, and so easily defined by clothing sizes that were created by men and a society who wants every woman to look like a teenage boy.

I can’t believe that I let these things get to me – even when I know better. As much as I stand on my high soap box blaming society and fashion magazines, I have to be honest with myself. There were no fashion magazines in the store yesterday. I was the one making myself feel bad. I was the woman alone in front of a mirror cutting herself into tiny pieces. I can’t control society, but I can make a stand for myself. Defend myself against unrealistic expectations that I have in my own mind.

My breasts grew a couple of inches yesterday. So what? I needed a new size of bra. So what? I am still the same woman. The world didn’t end. My boyfriend didn’t leave me. I didn’t become more or less intelligent. I didn’t become more or less successful. I will let go of the size and numbers of my body that I have let define me for so long.

Bring it on double D. I’m ready for you.