You can’t run without planning for it in advance.
Or go down stairs both quickly and gracefully.
You can’t jump. Ever.
And you can’t hug anyone shorter than you.
Can’t wear cute bras.
Can’t wear anything even remotely low-cut.
Wanna see your toes? Can’t.
Can’t wear cross-body bags.
Or car seatbelts.
Can’t find a bra that holds everything in.
And then fit your giant bras in a regular-sized underwear drawer.
And clothes that fit just right = nonexistent.
Swimsuits that are both supportive and not hideous are a myth.
Can’t get rid of that back ache.
Or of those stretch marks.
Wanna wear tent dresses, empire dresses, suspenders, or ruffles? Sorry.
And the button-down boob gap is your professional downfall.
Can’t wear just one sports bra.
Or anything with a built-in bra.
Definitely can’t sleep facedown.
Can’t lean against things without looking like you’re putting your boobs on the table.
Can’t handle bumpy roads or turbulence without looking vaguely pornographic.
Can’t stop knocking shit over.
Can’t wear unisex T-shirts or shirts with writing on the chest.
Can’t do any household chore for longer than five minutes without your back aching in protest.
And, finally, of course: You can’t complain without being told you’re humble-bragging.
Oh, well. At least you look great. Ta-ta!
Anything that involves the word “strapless” = off limits.