I used to pray I’d never get breasts at all. I didn’t want to deal with them, I was terrified of them. Of course, every woman in my family is at least a D-cup, so I should have known I had no chance. My mother forced a training bra on me when it became embarrassing to be without one. I hung onto that bra way past it’s usability, even though it was wretchedly uncomfortable. When summer came around, my mother and I went swimsuit shopping and slouched around looking at hideous suits w/ skirts and such, until she left me alone to browse on my own. At which point I ran red-faced to the bra section, grabbed one in every size that might possibly fit me. Sprinted into the changing room and figured it out for myself. When I showed up at the register with three bras, my mom was a little startled. But reasoned that any bra was better than the one I had on. I’ve mentioned all this to my mother now, years later, and she’s apologized profusely. She had no idea I was so embarrassed about developing – she just thought I was being stubborn.