Like all women in the entire world (with the exception of those lucky tribal gals in Africa and Australia, I suppose), my first bra buying experience ranks somewhere below chinese water torture and above eating hair.
My brassiered life began in sixth grade; it was recess, and I was telling my friend all the reasons why I didn't think I needed a bra yet (I swear this is true) when it started raining. After a couple minutes of rain and anti-bra lecturing, my friend pointed at my chest, and I looked down to see that only my boobs were wet. I stared at the damp spots on my magenta JC Penney turtleneck and whispered, "Oh God," because I knew that I had just become a woman. It was definitely a "This is the first day of the rest of your life" moment.
The next day I went with my mom to buy a bra, and the saleswoman at Mervyns (who seemed to be fresh off a long stint with the German army) took one look at my boobs and declared, in a shrill Frau Farbissina screech, "We need to LIFT! And SEPARATE!"
I left with an elasticized soft-cup atrocity, and have spent the rest of my life since rewarding myself with expensive and unpractical lingerie. Like these beauties: