Hello Bosom Buddy,
We’ve been together more than a decade, which is technically a longer and more intimate relationship than I’ve had with anyone who isn’t related to me and I thank you for your support. I’m writing you this letter today because although it’s a little embarrassing, you deserve my honesty.
I have been faking it.
The fact of the matter is, I really don’t need you that much. Now before you go getting all weepy, let me clarify that I’m keeping you around—you’re pretty much all that I have—but the last few years of our relationship have really been based more out of social convention than physical necessity.
It wasn’t like this in the beginning.
You were one of many with a very important job to do. I had more meat on my frame and an actual need for your support—physical and not just moral. The fact that you were from Victoria’s Secret, dark, mysterious and didn’t contain underwire was a winning combination.
I kept you in the rotation among a few others who, sadly, have not lasted nearly as long. Multiple washings wore out their lace, their straps, their comfort, and yet you stuck around like a champ.
We’ve had a lot of good times and some questionable moments — let’s not talk about that night in college when we woke up hung-over in a frat house and I frantically searched for you before eventually finding you stuck in a fan. If only you could have held my hair back instead of my boobs as I hovered over the toilet and swore off ever drinking again.
There’s a seasonal nature to our relationship and you accept that when it’s cold, I can defer to my preferred sports bra under the layers of clothes that I wear. But when the weather starts to heat up and your straps might just show, I don’t revert to the drawer full of lace, silk and padded cotton that pretty much now goes untouched.
No, I go to you.
Much like my yoga pants, I’m sure you had higher goals and expected to feel more fulfilled—both emotionally and physically—and I share in your disappointment. After all, Victoria’s Secret promoted you as helping to turn me into a “bombshell,” but I think both of us know that the only way that will happen is if your cups are packed with explosives.
Yet you try, and for that my bosom buddy, I give you an “A” for effort. Or more accurately, a 34 A. Ha!
At any rate, while I might not need you around, I’ll happily keep you around as long as you hold up your end of the deal—and the two little bumps on my chest.
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