You Have to Tell a Person When Her Boob is Labeled "L"

Quite happy with some new clothes that complement my current post-overindulgent winter body shape well, I giddily pulled tags and stickers from shirts, pants and skirts. I wore my new threads with pride, beaming like a peacock searching for a mate.

Having worn a particular fitted knit top purchased a few weeks earlier several times already, I pulled it off my laundry drying rack to wear with one of my new outfits. It matched a pair of new capris and tank top perfectly. I pranced around all day at work, a grocery store and the mall feeling great about my look.

Don't let an L sticker
happen to you—stick with
your best girlfriends.

Later that evening, as I was pulling my hair up into a ponytail to cool off—I was experiencing an internal five-alarm inferno, so getting my hair off my neck was essential—my wrist brushed up against something on my shirt. My bracelet had grazed my left breast and hit something. I looked in the mirror, expecting to see a pulled thread. What I found was a clear sticker with one bold, large letter. It was the letter L.

Not one person I encountered the entire day had the decency to mention to me my breast was sporting a size. Considering I’d worn the shirt several times before, there had to have been tens of people—hundreds even—who witnessed my boob sticker and chose not to let me in on the snafu.

I understand how embarrassing it can be to walk up to someone and say, “Hey, you might want to remove that Large-size notification from your left breast.” However, consider where that leaves the sticker-wearer. Seriously, a “large” sticker on ones left breast has connotations extending beyond shirt size. There is the appearance of noting general breast size, pointing out which breast is bigger or emphasizing what size shirt is required to cover the boobs in question. And good gracious, what if the sticker had been on my left posterior cheek rather than my boob?

At least with a price tag, I could have played off the fact that I might want to return the garment. But a size sticker, well, that’s just a string of embarrassing moments. Had I run into one of my close girlfriends on the days in question, I would have been made aware of the sticker situation. They’ve never let me leave their presence with spinach between my teeth, smeared lipstick or an unflattering unbuttoned or unzipped area. But sadly, I did not see my girls on those particular days.


Lessons learned include I need spend more time in the presence of my posse. And, maybe I should spend a little less time shopping for new clothes—at least until I’m back down to an M-size sticker.

Micki Bare, mother of three, wife, daughter & writer is the author of Thurston T. Turtle children's books. 

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