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A month into our grotesque routine of treasure-hunting for burrito quarters, I noticed a change in my chest, an uncomfortable garroting by my bra, something that resembled cleavage. Little did I know, Taco Bell would be my Mexican miracle worker. Since saving money is a concept to be learned in your early thirties, Susan and I headed to the only place $2 was worth anything: Taco Bell. Flabbergasted, I counted out nearly $1.50 - the first substantial amount of money in my possession since I spent my net worth on a pair of Ray-Bans. I was transferring clothes to the dryer and discussing with Susan why she shouldn’t have such a judgmental face when an unusual amount of change fell to the tiled floor. It took one insignificant laundry day to change everything. I had no plans, no job, no money, just ever-comforting reruns of “The O.C.” and the company of Susan, the poodle. There I was, floundering in the lull of summer before college. Yet, as in every underdog story, things could continue this way for only so long. Then I realized that if puberty couldn’t locate my boobs, cancer would hardly have better luck. After a severe bout of scrutiny, I almost convinced myself I had breast cancer. I spent unrecoverable moments between the ages of 11 and 17 searching my chest for any type of growth. Like Manson, I too longed to be a real girl. Instead, I resembled a brown Marilyn Manson - long, dark hair and an entirely masculine chest. Of course, the land of lady parts didn’t turn out to be sunshine and happiness and B cups. Simply put: Lady boobs! I was going to be a real girl! The esoteric, wonderful emergence of boobs was going to surface from the inner depths of my immortal being. When the estrogen attack subsided, I realized a perk of the big P. Unfortunately, I did as any other girl would: I cried, I yelled at my mother, I took evening angst walks alone. Graphic details aside, starting my period in a third-world country at the age of 11 wasn’t exactly how I envisioned my entrance into lady land. The educational diagrams of happily postpubescent girls were no preparation for what actually happened during a girl’s first period. Yet what it comes down to is whether I continue to allow my breasts to control me or just stop caring and learn to love them. Having to constantly worry about how my breasts look is certainly a burden. When I go to job interviews, I always yank my top up I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to use my chest as an advantage.
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I try not to wear low-cut tops, and even button-down shirts are a challenge because the buttons are tight at the middle. I notice when men start off looking me in the eye and then do quick eye drop to glance at my breasts. I wish I didn’t have them.” I wouldn’t trade them for a B cup just so I could sleep on my stomach or eliminate the back pain.īut they make me incredibly conscious about how they look to others and how I’m perceived because of my chest. I’m not going to be one of those women who shouts, “Woe is me! My large breasts are a burden. They ranged from the more common “bazookas,” “bosoms” and “knockers,” to the not-so-common “zingers” and “angel cakes.” In 1986, Playboy published a list of 300 synonyms for breasts. After going to my friend’s house for a cookout, I was later told that after I met the girl’s uncle, he’d jokingly commented, “Your friend is pretty big up there.”īreasts, as a concept, are not only considered sexy, but are seen as a comedic element to a woman’s appearance, only adding to overall self-consciousness. I started wearing three bras every time I played.īy my senior year of high school, I was up to a D cup. “Your boobs are huge,” one of my teammates said to me. No matter how many bench press reps I did or how hard I exercised, my boobs never diminished in size. The next day at practice, everyone was talking about how their breasts shrunk when they worked out. I was appalled by how large they looked on the screen, moving up and down as I ran. I played soccer throughout, and always considered myself to be like the other girls, never thinking that I had large breasts - until our team sat down to some game films. Confused, I looked down and saw that I was giving him a generous look at my cleavage. In my junior high art class, I simply leaned against a table, and was greeted with a surprised “Whoa!” from the guy across from me. That first fourth-grade revelation was the beginning of many unwanted boob-related situations. But for those who mature early, it can be a source of trauma with long-term effects. For many girls, starting to develop breasts is a sign of becoming a woman.