I have to get this off my chest.

I had another bout of hating my breasts yesterday as I attempted to purchase a red brassiere. Yes folks, Elgan desires to own a red bra just because she thinks it might be fun. Well, shopping for one is not fun, and pushy salesladies make it even less so. They also try to get you to buy matching panties, which just don�t do it for me because no one sees my panties, but people might get a glimpse of my bra.

Why is it that in the privacy of my own bedroom or bathroom, in my underwear, I think I look just fine thank you, and under the fluorescent lights of lingerie department change rooms my skin looks green and flabby, my breasts flop on my chest like two pessimistic sacks (half-empty as opposed to half-full), and nothing fits properly? Did I ever have small, perky boobs? Did I actually once wear a 34B and look good in it? I fear I am turning into one of those photo-portraits of an African tribal crone in National Geographic with dried-up dugs hanging to her waist. At least I have good teeth.

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