bras. whatever.

I held out hope until about twenty-five that I would wake up one morning with an enormous rack. It didn't happen. Which, for all intents and purposes, is probably for the best. I think if I'd gotten the jumblies I always wanted, I'd be all Katy-Perry-bikinis-on-top every chance I got. Apparently, someone thought I couldn't be trusted with a large chest. They might have been right. We'll never know.

If nothing else, I find that it's healthy to have a running joke with yourself about a physical shortcoming. Not that it even IS a physical shortcoming. The only reason that I even categorize it this way is because it's not the ideal. I can be certain of that because Victoria's Secret no longer carries my size in anything other than a push-up variety (save for their Pink line, which is quite obviously meant for teenagers and women with daddy issues). Now then. What does that say? I know. How dare I be comfortable in my own skin. "Yes, unhelpful-lady-in-unflattering-black-suit-with-unnecessary-headset, I am seeking a 34A WITHOUT padding. Oh, that doesn't exist? That's awesome. Please, point me in the direction of something else that might lower my self-esteem."

Surely I'm not the only woman who isn't interested in strapping two pounds of padding onto her chest in the name of better fulfilling the fantasies of men who she doesn't know, nor would like to get to know. That seems like something one would jump to pay $48 for, right? It's pretty appalling that our perfection-obsessed culture has pushed a brand to believe that women with only modest lady lumps couldn't possibly be content, and are simply seeking a solution until we can spring for surgery. Note to VS: this is not the case. A few of us might still just like a lovely bra that subtly swathes our bosom. And we'll shop elsewhere.

Every now and then I'll put on something that makes me think, This would look better with a nice pair. Sure. But that's as deep as my self-loathing runs (in this arena anyway). That is until Victoria's Secret just stops carrying 34A altogether, and I'm forced to continue my adult life with band-aids over my nipples. That would be sad.

calling it quits

 Photo: GQ Russia

I'm beginning to believe that there is too much value placed on sticking it out, and not nearly enough on the benefits of foregoing another moment doing something you can't stand. Yet we're told from the time we're very young that quitting is for losers and underachievers. People of character and substance grin and bear it. Well, that's rather bleak if you ask me. Not to mention puts an awful lot of pressure on the decisions you make.

I'd like to propose this instead. You have one life. You should spend it as happily as possible. Of course, it should go without saying (though it seems nothing ever does) that this doesn't mean going about our lives shallowly dipping our toes into things for a minute or two, and writing them off if the initial experience doesn't live up to expectations. What I'm talking about is giving something a real go, and if it doesn't work out or it feels wrong, find an alternative, hand in your notice, offer your apologies and hightail it the hell out of there.

If the only reward in staying where you are is being able to say that you suffered long and hard, well, what exactly does that equate to other than wasted moments when you could have been doing something you enjoy--or, at the least, something that didn't make you question the point of your existence. We no longer live in a world where martyrs are revered. No one is going to build a monument to the hours you lost doing demeaning work. Save yourself the agony. 

To this day, I'm grateful that I didn't have those parents who force their offspring to continue with dreaded extracurriculars for the sake of "showing commitment." Quitting ballet, Girl Scouts, soccer, and probably a few other activities that escape me at the moment, allowed me to find another outlet. One that resonated with who I was (it was cheerleading). And you know what, I never regretted giving up the other things. I wouldn't have been able to find something I loved if I'd been tied up with something I loathed. I had a professor in grad school who gave a poignant lecture on the value of "bumping up against" as many opportunities as possible, to see what fits. You can't do that if you're encumbered by something that doesn't. 

Maybe I'm simply exemplifying my generation's supposed overwhelming sense of entitlement (I do feel entitled to happiness, actually). But consider for a moment that maybe I'm not. Maybe people have been feeling tied to too many things that haven't worked for them for too long. Maybe this is part of the reason that more Americans than ever are being prescribed psycho-pharmaceuticals to quell their anxiety and depression. Personally, I'd rather earn myself a reputation as non-committal than join the ranks of the miserably complacent.

Full disclosure: Friday is my last day at my current job. I quit, and now I'm going to be paid to write, exclusively. How wonderful is that?