Editor’s note: This is a guest post from Kim Sisto Robinson.

All right gals, here’s the dilemma. Half of us are wearing the wrong size bra. That’s right. We’re sauntering around town with sagging, wobbling, drooping boobies and let me tell you…it’s not a pretty sight. Women in America are swinging their ta-tas from side to side like old elephant trunks and it has officially become a crisis situation.

On a recent (repeated) Oprah episode, bra expert, Susan Nethero stated that 8 out of 10 women are wearing the wrong bra size.

What?

“Not only can the right bra eliminate sagging, it can make you appear slimmer and take years off your look,” Nethero says.

One can imagine, after this particular episode, bra stores were swamped with women desperately trying to elevate their shortcomings. Just the words “slimmer” and “years off” will do it for most women (i.e., me).

Lifting, separating, and rising up: this is message Nethero is sending out to America’s women. Why would a woman want to walk around braless unless her breasts are perfectly perky? Not that I’m against breasts. I love ‘em. I just don’t want somebody’s nipples swaying in my direction (if you know what I mean). On the same note…why would a woman want to wear a bra that doesn’t support her beautiful, lush melons?

Every time I meet my girlfriend, Kristy (not her real name), I want to scream, “Don’t you know that your knockers are nearly touching the continent of Australia!” I mean, this girl is only forty-two years old and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d borrowed her bra (an old fashioned Playtex) from her eighty year old grandma. But I can’t bring myself to say anything.

Would you?

But then I saw something that changed my mind.

I thought I had the correct bra, shaping and contouring flawlessly. Yet, when I observed a recent snapshot of myself, I resembled my friend Kristy! Instead of my massive mama’s touching the Canadian Provinces, they darn near touched the Dead Sea. Why didn’t I see this? Why is it that we often don’t see in ourselves what we observe in others? Why didn’t anybody inform me of my swinging succulence…my collapsing Chrysanthemums?

Next day I squealed up to Victoria’s Secret, leaving dust behind like Road Runner. The clerk nodded her head knowingly as I walked in. “You watched Oprah, huh?”

She resembled Tyra Banks (I hated her right away): exquisite cranberry lips, emerald cat eyes, and her glossy ebony suit looked like something out of Glamour magazine.

She looked long and hard at my chest, grinning. “Yep, you need a little assistance, darling.”

The nerve of super-models now days.

Tyra led me into a powdered-pink dressing room where she measured and calculated my cup size. “I will assure you, darling, when you exit this place, you will not have dimples, back fat, or sagging.”

If I were a sensitive person, I might have assumed Tyra was insulting me, but I was past the point of giving a damn.

It was true, though. When I left Victoria’s Secret that day, I was a new woman…perky and proud. Instead of my bra overflowing like Myra Breckenridge, my breasts were tight and taunt. One cannot imagine what a new bra can do for a woman when her breasts suddenly become submissive to gravity.

Thinking back, I now feel it was a disservice to my friend for not telling her about her wilting flowers. If women aren’t candid with one another, we haven’t advanced as far as we should have. I mean, I was so concerned about Kristy’s feelings that I allowed her walk around with drooping mushmelons. It reminded me of a quote by Gloria Steinem, “The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off.”

Feminism embodies more than “let it all hang out, honey”. We did. We do. But now it’s time to dig the bras from the ashes, put them on, and hopefully we’ll not be swinging our opulence anywhere but straight ahead.

And if we sway anything, anything at all…let it be our buoyancy, our brilliance, and our brains.

Kim Sisto Robinson is a mother of 2 teenage boys, 2 snotty tabbies, and 1 beautiful British husband. When she’s not writing, you can find her at Laura MacArthur School, where she works as the discipline teacher. She blogs obsessively on Skirt.com and is a columnist for MaryElise.com. By her own admission, she “writes to breathe”.