The first bra I ever bought was in sixth grade. It was white, with a ribbon flower in the middle. Size 28AAA. I didn’t even need it.
I grew up in a house of women—three older sisters and my mother—practically drowning in bras and maxi pads. Wondering when it would be my turn to join the club, I did a few of those “must increase my bust” exercises, knowing full well they didn’t work but also figuring they couldn’t hurt. So when my best friend down the street showed me her new training bra, I refused to wait a second longer.
I stood in the driveway until my mom got home, blocking her car from the garage.
“This is serious business,” I told her.
Read More: The Real Bra Dictionary
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