I am the wrong size, apparently

I’m in a shitty mood, thanks to an ill-fated shopping trip.  I hate bra shopping, I really do.  I’d put it off for, I dunno, a year… two?  So I finally made it to Myer’s underwear department after no less than five procrastination stops along the way.  A shop assistant offered to help, and brought three ill-fitting bras one after the other as I tried them on.  It usually takes anywhere between six and twenty to find one, so I figured we were just getting started.  The place was almost empty, so I expected she’d come back fairly quickly.  I waited.  I waited some more.  I rang the buzzer.  Then I waited.  And she never came!  Never said that was all she had – which it couldn’t have been – no, she just left me there and disappeared.  Oh, and she did make some ridiculous comments about how my bust was so small that perhaps I should try the children’s department.  I haven’t heard that before. 

So I came away feeling slighted.  I mean, what am I supposed to do?  I can’t just walk around braless, now can I?  My boobs are too small for Western society.  Geez, I guess I’ll just have to stop taking the progestogen I take to keep endometriosis somewhat at bay, and what, maybe take some oestogen and hope they grow a bit?  The worst thing is, right now I’m tempted to do just that. 

It’s always the way.  I get into some manic spree where I finally have the energy to get a few things done, and then something like this comes along.  Something that just shouldn’t come up.  Buying a goddamned bra should not be that difficult. 

I have this memory in my head of that shop assistant showing me some bra obviously two sizes too big, looking like freaking Madonna in the 80’s, implying I should stuff it with half a box of tissues every morning, or some such.  Lady, there is nothing wrong with my boobs.  There’s something wrong with the size range of your bras.