Tits

 Mine are huge. You can see me coming around the corner 2 minutes before I can see you. They are composed of half fat and yes, to no one's surprise, half silicone. (If this is news to you, you clearly have zero grasp of a woman's anatomy. Is your only reality video games with cartoon anime chicks? Unless I am Octo-Mom Dairy Barn, the fun bags are bought and paid for. Duh.) To all the young girls out there contemplating getting boobs for a boy, here's my advice: Don't f-ing do it. Don't go with your man to "see what you will look like as a D". Don't get bullied by a male doc or a nurse with Pam Anderson boobs. You will have fun with them for awhile. They are a cool novelty. Everyone stares at the beach. Men will whistle. You can't see your feet. They are bouncy and perky and when you lay on your back they don't slide under your arm pits like a pack of melted ice cream sandwiches you left in your car overnight.

 Pretty soon real life sets in and you get OLD. I'm not talking shriveled Tales From the Crypt geriatric with tennis balls on your walker. I'm talking about that hazy area of 40's where you absolutely should NOT be looking at anything in the juniors department, PacSun, Forever 21, or Hollister. Let's maybe take the word "old" off the table. Mature? Like you piss your pants when you sneeze or do jumping jacks but NOT because you can't remember where the john is. Your body is not like it was when it was 20 or even 30. So the jubblies that were like a prize-winning Jello mold back in the day are now only getting the look you give to the carnies who run the parking lot fairs on Memorial Day who have three teeth and a tattoo of the Confederate flag on their neck. Shit, they are pretty much only worthy of a sad Target sports bra which acts like a sling to confine them like a bowl of rising dough. 

 Speaking of which, let's talk about working out. All the Itty Bitty Titty Committee members who are going to read this and be up in my shit saying "I WISH I had boobs!" can skip ahead a paragraph.....If you want to play the "Let's Take Molly's Tits to Work Day", I will need a yard of some sort of ugly Spandex fabric, duct tape, barbed wire, and 17 pounds of Pillsbury dough, any variety. I am going to fashion a singular tube of the Spandex into a kangaroo boob pouch, secured at the bottom of your ribs by the duct tape which will dig in and make your back fat look soooooo sexy. I will shove all 17 pounds of the dough into the pocket. I will then fashion shoulder straps from the barbed wire. There is an All-You-Can-Carry shoe sale at Nordstrom and the first ten lucky customers to the shoe department get in on that craziness. Ready, set, GO!!! Run!!!!!!!!!... Tell me you want big boobs for a day one more time. This is my high impact cardio life. If I have to wear 4 bras to do Insanity knee tucks so I don't give myself a black eye, I'll take a pass, Shaun T. (Between the boobs and the bladder, I am a walking liability. How many Shamwows do you have on hand?)

 The go-to bra Mecca is Victoria's Secret. Everything is colorful and pretty and bright and sexy. Until you tell your tape measure-wielding sales girl the size you need. You say it in a whisper and try to be lighthearted about it. She assures you "They aren't THAT big!!" then does a high pitched fake machine gun laugh which exposes her lies. She kneels down and has to enter a digital code into the bottom of the bottom drawer so that the sub-floor storage room opens up to reveal the Mamma Jamma Jug drawer. Shit just got real. The sassy tropical bra in a 32B you saw on the mannequin is an actual to-scale map of the Bahamas. Not cute. It could be used as a shield for the military. She grabs threes bras in your size and throws them over her shoulder like a fat swimmer who's been dragged to shore. You witness an ACTUAL bead of sweat dripping down her temple because transporting them to the fitting room is like a Cross Fit workout. The cotton candy pink wallpaper and surgery room bright lights aren't doing you any favors. Can we put a damn dimmer switch in here???? You notice that the cage bra is actual recycled prison cell doors cleverly adorned with gold buckles and satin. WTF? The sales girl casually pounds on your door with her sappy sweet "How's it going in there, Molly?" Bitch, you know exactly how it's going. It's going downhill faster than Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. You exit and attempt to toss the reject bras into the pile with everyone else's things. They act like some sort of brassiere bowling ball and knock all the other lingerie to the floor. 

"Didn't work out for you?" she asks with a smirk. I want to flick her on her teeny tiny American Girl nipples but my rotator cuff is jacked from trying to unhook the Prison Sexy Collection made of real wrought iron.

 I have been to the "big girl store" for bras that are meant for business. And when I say "meant for business" I mean bras that will pretty much guarantee I'm not getting any business other than brochures for cat adoption, Spanx, and trans-vaginal mesh lawsuits. Can there be a happy medium between the lacy Date Night Nipple Yarmulke at VS and the tan corduroy, mock neck turtleneck bra from Soma? Why is there no gray area here? Is there no hope for a mature woman who is neither nun nor porn star with a big rack who can use your one-size-fits-all bandeau as a scrunchie? Until someone can help figure this out, I'll be doing not cardio on my couch. If I change my mind, Shaun T.,  you will know because Braless Molly sounds exactly like a Clydesdale horse galloping. Giddyup.