My friend K and I are about as different as two BFFs can be. She is a homebody who's vacationed out of the country once—because I dragged her to the Bahamas for our 21st birthdays—while I once lived abroad and make an overseas voyage at least twice a year. She's married; I'm divorced. K lives in sweats, but I live for pearls. Oh, and K could burst out of a JJ bra, while I barely fill out a B-cup.
Meanwhile, K and I have a mutual friend, T, who swears that even with a gun to her head she couldn't tell you her breast size. It doesn't matter, she insists, because when she needs a new bra, she simply sashays into Victoria's Secret, snags a lacy something from its 34B-size Bombshell line, which promises to increase your breast size by two full cups, and is blissfully ignorant as a (fake) 34D. Is she a 34B then? "I don't know," she says. "All I know is that it doesn't fall down and makes me look awesome!"
We all can't be a natural Scarlett Johansson.
But what a trio we make. Me, too small to fit into most lingerie. T, tiny but not afraid of falsely advertising larger-than-life knockers. And K, with the real big deal, but who would trade anything for a downsizing. All this time we spend thinking about our own sizes begs the question: "Does our breast size really matter to men?" For the answer, I turned to K, T, and a couple more varied-size friends to see what their men think.
K: "My husband loves my breasts. He'd touch them 24/7 if he could. And if I ever talk about getting a reduction—because, hello, these babies cause serious back pain—he begs me not to. He gets legitimately upset, as if I were talking about divorcing him instead of separating myself from some extra fat."
