Countless times she's said, "Kara, go put on a padded bra with that dress!" or "Kara, that shirt really needs a padded bra," only to my response, "Mom, I'm already wearing one! You can't tell?"
She views breast implants as investing in my self-esteem.
Instead of bras I don tape. As nipples that resemble weapons aren't socially acceptable, I strap my spunky nips down. This tape has incarnated itself in Duct tape, Masking tape, and most recently, Scotch tape. A prior fling some years ago was baffled the first time he reached up my shirt to fondle my breasts only to find them restricted by Duct tape and smaller than his own. An ex-boyfriend was riveted by removing the tape himself, occasionally attempting with his teeth.
A few days ago I had enshrouded my pokies in Scotch tape and was in my underwear filing through the clothes on my floor for a shirt when a friend entered my room. She surveyed me on hands and knees as casually as if I were watching Friends and drinking a glass of wine, and inquired, "What's wrong with your nipples?"
I looked down. As Scotch tape is transparent, my pink buds appeared inverted, the natural obtrusion flush with my breast skin. They exhibited as I imagine alien breasts would show.
I looked up from my hands-and-knees position, "Oh, it's my nipple tape."
Sans facial alteration, she said, "Ok. You almost ready?"
My friends accept one another like the Brady Bunch.