What started off as a writer's quest for inspiration turned into a full-blown inventory project as I rifled through my lingerie drawer, flinging bras of all shapes and sizes onto my bed. The colorful pallet I laid out was a glorious tribute to female undergarments and the gems they hold. It was also a trip down Memory Lane for my breasts and me, as I recalled the assorted feelings I've held close to my bosom for years. I counted 23 total bras. The fact that I have so many bras for breasts that need so little support would be laughable if there weren't more to it.

The bras fell naturally into categories and subcategories according to my own compulsions. The most eye-catching group, The Miraculous MaxiPads, include ultra-cushioned bras that could turn the most masculine guy into Queen for a Day. A couple of these bras I wear on occasion, usually in an insecure moment or as last-ditch effort to keep from looking like an 11-year-old boy. One of these bras has been deemed worthless because it gives me 1940s-style bullet breasts and another became obsolete almost as soon as I got it home, when I discovered that it pushed my boobs so close together I had a toddler's butt crack for cleavage.

What this stack of bras confirms about my breasts is that the twins have never been happy with falsies strapped over them. They are uncomfortable and confining. As much as I marvel at the looks I get with these miracle bras, the real miracle is that there will always be guys who will ogle a size 34A.

My second pile contains The One-Hit Wonders, some of which I don't even remember buying. I do know that the racerback bra has resided in the bottom of my drawer since 1988 when I donned a Homecoming dress with ruffles that wouldn't stop. My most impressive piece is a rib-hugging, backless, strapless, wannabe-girdle contraption that I wore on my wedding day and never again since. It is exquisitely simple and discreetly padded. It also cost me $50, which now seems inexcusable but at the time was considered chump change in the swirl of the moment.

What this group clearly says about my boobs: I enjoy them enough to believe that they deserve nothing short of the best. Even when band-aids will suffice, every breast likes to be pampered.

I nearly got teary-eyed sorting through the largest stack--The Birth Control Bras. Ah, the salad days, when my boobs got close enough to a B cup that I could request that size without the storeclerk smirking. Subconsciously I may have known that my enlarged chest was a fleeting gift because I flung money at Victoria's Secret like a groom throws cash at strippers during his last night of freedom. And boy did I buy some fine bras: luxuriously smooth ones, others with sheer cups and tiny straps, intricately beaded get-ups, and one with funky black and gold stitching. There is even a bright red number in that pile, because even though I look terrible in that color, I got in my head that every girl needed a red bra.

The lesson learned here about my breasts is not exactly admirable, but at least it's honest. I hang on to these bras because I know that despite how much I grow to fully appreciate my body, a small part of me will always crave one size larger.

The final group of bras lies flat and lifeless, worn out from the long days on the job. These are The Worker Bees and they make it their personal mission to keep my typically outspoken breasts from standing up and making themselves known. The Worker Bees are extremely comfortable and moderately sexy. They don't get in the way of any of my clothes.

So now I wear these "what you see is what you get" bras and I would like to think that the change comes from increased self-confidence and personal enlightenment. But perhaps it has more to do with Ally McBeal's tight T-shirts and her inadvertent call to arms. Flat-chested women, Unite! Or maybe, just maybe, I have tired of obsessing over the size of my chest and decided to focus on something more substantial. Like my ass. If you think I'm weird about my bra collection, you should see my blue jeans.

All Personal Breast photos by Robyn Eden.