Humor Life

Tiny Ta Tas: Small-Boobed Girls Have it Rough, Too

It's not just the Double-D Debbies that have a rough go of it. Tiny-Tittied Tammies aren't doing much better.

Okay, you big-breasted Berthas, you are right — looks like you do have it rough, with your fruitless quests for over-the-shoulder boulder holders and creepy stares from men (and women) at your below-the-neck region. But what about those of us on the other end of the spectrum? Yeah, we women over here who could pass for Bobby Brady on Halloween without really trying? It’s not too fun over here, either. I promise.

The world expects women to have breasts. Clothes are shaped to curve around them. Men’s hands are shaped in a cup-like curvature by nature in the hopes of grasping one at any time. Victoria has made no secret of her multi-billion-dollar empire based almost entirely on covering (and not covering), supporting, and showing off the female bosom and all its glory. Therefore, those of us less-endowed females often find ourselves left out to dry with you, Double-D Debbie, as we AA-Alices, too, have our share of pain.

Did it start in 7th grade for you, too? While you were navigating the awkwardness of containing your blossoming bosoms, we also were confused and frustrated. We had no idea how to manage our new training bras, as they never stayed put and creeped toward our necks all day long with nothing to hold them in place.

Why, you may wonder, did we force our mothers to take us shopping for unnecessary training bras? With the chest of a 6-year old boy, what was the point? Gym class locker rooms. Sleepovers. That’s why. You remember 7th grade! We had to have something for our our friends to steal and hide in the freezer while we were sleeping!

So yes, we wrapped these unnecessary contraptions around our pre-pubescent bodies and prayed they would stay put (they didn’t.) So while you were cramming yours into bras that were already too small, we were sneaking around the corner, desperate for a second alone to pull the damn things down and out of our armpits.

While you may find frustration with properly containing and housing your huge tracks of land, we have gaping holes. Gaping holes in the built-in bras that clothes manufacturers incorporate into clothes and bathing suits. Gaping holes in prom dresses, where our dates assumed boobs would be. (They were sorely disappointed later on in the evening, as they searched frantically in the dark for something to grab onto.) Gaping holes in bras that used to fit us (sort of) when our tiny boobies were at least perky, but now our kids can poke forward and let out the air that exists in there. (Or they can hide matchbox cars in there. Or snacks for later. Whatever.)

And you know where else we have a gaping hole? You know that word “cleavage”? You know, that sexy line that draws the eyes down in anticipation and wonderment of what it leads to? Yeah… we have a Jupiter-sized space between our non-boobs, where a line will never be.

And isn’t shopping a bitch? Victoria’s Secret doesn’t work for us any more than it works for you. In fact, here’s how it plays out if you are one of us.

You approach the helpful employee and tell her you are bra shopping, stating your size. She looks at you in confusion, trying to translate as if you spoke in tongues. And once she has computed that yes, that is in fact your actual bra size, she forces a smile. “Oh, yes,” she says. “I think we do have a few… in that size…”

She leads you to the very back of the store, to a dark and musty corner that no other earthling has visited in 20 years. At the very bottom of a chest of drawers, there it is: your size, labeled on the front with an old peeling sticker. The employee wipes off the 2 inches of dust and suggests you have a look-see. You evaluate your options: light tan, dark tan, white, and one random zebra print… Hmmm. No bows. No lace. No dangly jewels. Victoria doesn’t waste her time or money on bedazzling bras for you tiny-tittied Tammies. You grab a few, don’t bother to try them on, and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. And then you drown your sorrows at the Frozen Yogurt stand at the bottom of the escalator.

All I’m saying is, we know your pain, Double D. Your big mamas are kin, in a weird way, to our barely there booblets. So let’s stand together and say to all the regular old Bs and Cs out there that they better step aside and let us on through. Let’s join in this crusade together. Boobies big and small, unite!