WARNING: This entry is about my boobs.

It’s not a dirty entry — I didn’t take pictures or anything — but I don’t want anyone claiming that the content of this diary entry traumatized them.

On the contrary, this is meant to be an uplifting entry.

So, here we go:

Apparently, I’ve been living half of my life stuffed into an ill-fitting bra. That explains a lot…

I’m a 32, not a 36. (Women aren’t supposed to breathe so much as pant in their lingerie, turns out.) And get this — I’ve been a DD trapped in a C cup brassiere. (I still can’t get over that one.)

Who knew? I hadn’t been fitted for a bra since I was 14.

But My New Best Friend (she’s seen me half naked and felt me up after all) at Petticoat Fair has changed all that. A walk-in visit to grab a few wedding necessities has changed my life. I am now the bewildered owner of a brand new silhouette.

My chin now hovers precariously 3 inches from my boobs. (I yawn very carefully now.) My breasts sit so high that it’s all I can do not to stare myself in the “eyes.” I’m strapped in so tight that slouching is actually painful.

“How does it feel?” My New Best Friend asked in the dressing room after outfitting me in my new foundation wear. “Comfortable?”

“Mmmmmm…are they supposed to be so, well…militant-looking?” I asked, warily pushing at the steel underwired sides of my boobie containment units.

She chuckled and ran out to bring a half dozen more überbras to try on.

I don’t know exactly how I feel about my new shape. (My fiancé let out a cheer upon hearing news of my newly official cup size.) It’s just that something seems wrong to me about their new position. I mean, sure, I’m busty for my height (the short side of average) and weight (the average side of average for my height). But my boobs — only what God gave me one summer between 7th and 8th grades — shouldn’t look like implants, right?

They don’t languidly bob and sway anymore. They don’t gently slope like they used to.

They now stand at attention like terriers daring anyone and everyone to bring it on.

“Breasts” is too soft a word for what my boobs look like now. Bosoms, titties, boobies, nénés — not right either. And while “mammae” is scientifically correct, I think I’ll them “Bruiser” (the left one) and “Bruno” (the right one) from now on.

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