And so, suggestible creature that I am, I began thinking about mine. In positive terms, that is. I wondered if perhaps my longtime habit of hiding my bosom was not—as Jonah Hill’s oversexed adolescent character notes in the film Superbad, about a girl who has gotten breast-reduction surgery—“like slapping God across the face for giving [me] a beautiful gift.” Certainly the models on the Prada and Vuitton catwalks made a strong case for buxom as beautiful. Each show featured a cast of voluptuous Victoria’s Secret sirens: Adriana Lima and Bar Refaeli at Vuitton, Miranda Kerr and Doutzen Kroes at Prada, Alessandra Ambrosio at both. Historically disqualifying for runway work, these models’ curves made the clothes look irresistible, luscious, downright sexy. More to the point, they made the clothes look suitable. One glimpse at Vuitton show opener Laetitia Casta’s abundant assets and I was transported into a parallel fashion universe: a place where designers had come to praise my bosom, not bury it. Literally and figuratively, my cup ranneth over.
I wish I could say that this is where my story ends—with me and a Vuitton steamer trunk full of D-friendly getups riding (bouncing!) happily off into the sunset. And for a while, despite all the heartbreak that fashion has visited upon me and my D-cups over the years, I really did believe that was going to be the case. When my editor had first approached me to write about the new curvaceousness, he made me an offer that I’d defy any fashion lover to refuse. “I’ll arrange for you to visit the Louis Vuitton showroom,” he said smoothly, like a benevolent stranger offering a child a nice, shiny lollipop. “They’ll let you look through the collection at your leisure, borrow the outfit of your choice, and wear it around town to see how it feels.” While he had me at “showroom,” “outfit of your choice” sent me over the moon.
The employees at the Vuitton showroom were faultlessly welcoming and kind. The samples I found there? Not so much. Sure, they were gorgeous. And exquisitely crafted. And sexy as all get-out. They were also, however, minuscule. Attired for the occasion in a white Empire-waist sundress with—an anomaly in my wardrobe—a plunging neckline, I did a quick visual comparison between the size of the clothes on the rack and the size of my rack. The former, accommodate the latter? My mind curled up in a sad little ball. You see, I don’t know much about geometry, or physics, or whatever cruel science it is that determines how volume G (gargantuan) fits into space t (teeny-tiny), or how mass M (massive) relates to object l (Lilliputian). But I do know—knew within minutes of sizing up those garments—that Operation “Outfit of Your Choice” was, well, a bust.
