No matter how diligently I pray to the brassiere gods, my cup size never ascends the alphabet, it just hovers back and forth between the first two letters. When I finally went from vowel, to consonant it was cause for celebration -- and a shopping spree. That’s where my addiction started. Hello, my name is Gratitude Cocktail Girl, and I’m a lingerieaholic.

For once in my life, I kinda (and we’re talking the flimsiest of “kindas”) feel sorry for big breasted women. Their bra choices are limited, with numbers of hooks that are divisible by eight and even if they manage to find a pretty bra, it costs an even prettier penny. Conversely, I get to run through any intimate apparel boutique with reckless abandon, knowing they’ll always have my size. My underwear drawer(s) are bursting, jam packed with (at last count) 87 garments -- nary a baggy, saggy or haggy item in the bunch.

I don’t feel sad anymore that I wasn’t born breast blessed, because I can splurge on Agent Provocateur and La Perla, or skimp and look pretty in a cotton bralette from the Gap with no support -- or real purpose, other than to look cute. I know guys will always prefer big bazoombas, and mine are more bazoom-blahs, but I’m grateful for pretty little bras because they manage to boost my cleavage and my self-esteem. I never feel guilty about buying new lingerie, because every cloud has a sliver lining and my small clouds are always covered in something pretty.

That’s why I’m grateful for pretty little bras.