Walking dreamily through Greenwich village, I peer into the window of a promising boutique. Handmade designer dresses line the rack in an assortment of chic shades. The grey and black frocks might fit me, so I try them on.
The fitting room is just a closet with a space heater, and as I struggle to pull the wool dresses over my ample chest, I begin to perspire. Just a bit. The smallest size fits everywhere...but my boobs. The medium size fits even better everywhere...but my boobs. Finally, the large size basically fits...but my boobs are still far too large in the dress. They're squashed into a very unsightly uniboob. In my typically American (apparently) directness, I tell the kind shopgirl that my boobs are too big for her cute dress, apologize, and am on my way. She actually balked!
"A lady came in here earlier with your 'problem'. I wish I had that 'problem'."
With great power comes great responsibility. That's what I told her as I turned to face the chilly London night air.
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