I don't remember that day

As in I don't remember the day I hired on at the local bordello.  Skinny girls with small bosoms can read this post, but they just won't get it. 
A week or so ago, I got myself another pair of Amanda jeans by Gloria Vanderbelt.  While I coveted the red ones, I opted for the slightly subtler plum ones.  Alison was with  me when I was eyeing the reds.  She said I should get them.  I asked her, "Where would I wear these?" envisioning myself sweeping the floor or making banana bread while I glowed my way through the house.  "On your body." was her response.  Yes.  Well.  I guess that would be the obvious choice.
So I have these plum pants with nary a thing to go with them.  A serious problem.  Today I set out to the local FM to find a shirt.  I'm not afraid to admit I shop in the women's section.  The arm space is so much more comfortable and the shirts tend not to gap open at embarrassing junctures while the wearer is gesticulating like an Italian.  BUT what you will get in the women's section is ENORMOUS necklines.  Necklines that I could wear around my waist with room to spare.  So this is my frustration.  Why do designers assume that busty women want to display all of the goods?  Is it a matter of material conservationism?  Since they have to add so much more to cover our Buddha bellies and bosoms that they have to take a little from somewhere else to make their material expenses budget out at the end of the year?  Perhaps it's because they think that with our Jabba the Hut bodies we also have heads to match, so an expanded neckline is put in to make room for the passage of our noggins that have their own solar systems.  (Thank you So I Married an Axe Murderer for that image.)
This look is manageable here.  Layers are not remiss where it scarcely gets into the 80's for a week or two out of the year.  When we go to Idaho in the summer, I still have to layer shirts in 100+ temps or face accidental costume malfunctions that bring horror to my family and myself.  Bending over requires all kinds of yoga-esque moves to keep myself modest. 
I guess this is kind of a clarion call.  All ye women unite!  Smaller necklines for one and all!  Because seriously.  When I hire on at a Miss Judy's House of Girls, Girls, Girls, I'd like to know about it and get paid a whole heck of a lot more.