The fact that my bra size wasn’t that big made me feel like I wasn’t girling right. To me, bras were the ultimate symbol of maturity and femininity. I chugged milk and scarfed down ramen (Google told me this would transform my AAs to DDs) in hopes of speeding that process along. I held onto the hope that my boobs would grow in eventually. When I got my first bra in seventh grade, I was disappointed that the Target purchase didn’t magically transform me into “a woman.” I was still the same flat-chested Ogechi. I saw Victoria’s Secret ads of glamorous models with gravity-defying cleavage and couldn’t wait for my own awe-inspiring rack to develop. Rummaging through my mom’s drawers, I’d find intricately designed lace bras with cups the size of my head. For as long as I can remember, bras have fascinated me.
