I hate my boobs. I can’t remember once ever enjoying them. I mean, of course when I was ten or so it was pretty sweet to start growing breasts. A-cups in sixth grade? That’s fine. Bs in seventh? Perfectly normal. Upgrading to a C in eighth, that was kind of strange. But growing triple Ds the summer before ninth grade? Now, that’s just ridiculous!
When I tell people how much I hate my boobs, they’ll say right to my face that I’m wrong. That really annoys me because yes, Miss 34A totally understands what it’s like to be Mistress 30G. Don’t you dare giggle in my face about how I don’t want A-cups, how “lucky” I am to have two pounds of boob to lug around. Here’s the thing about we busty girls: surprise, surprise, we once were 32Bs, too! And yes, perhaps the memories of such days are a little foggy. But I’ll be damned if you convince me that they weren’t better.
Why do you look at me like a freak because I don’t enjoy when people stare there? Yes, I get it, those people are human. But so am I. I’m allowed to feel uncomfortable and to sometimes complain. I’m allowed to not see it as a compliment. I’m allowed to not enjoy that type of attention.
Even those who don’t stare seem to feel like it’s a given that they can randomly come up and ask, “What’s it like?” to start a conversation. Just because society as a whole views these certain appendages in a golden light, does not mean that’s even remotely appropriate. How would you like it if I came up and asked, “What’s it like to have pimples/wide eyes/weird arms/big belly/snot, etc.” Seriously, what are you thinking?
Ah, to be free of this weight! To wake up in the morning with no pain in my neck, my back feeling fine. To be able to forgo the bra for one day, be free and wild! You cannot possibly imagine how perfectly marvelous it would be to run without risking a black eye. Not just run — skip, walk, jump-rope. Not be partially crushed to death by the weight of my own breasts when lying on my back. Not having my arms splayed out on both sides, like a chalk outline on CSI:Miami, during the trunk lift in PE class. Not having to negotiate the placement of my boobs every time I sit at a counter (rest them on top or underneath?), no more searching for hours trying to find someplace that sells bras in my size, or finding a dress that fits my boobs — but not the rest. It’d be nice to buy those cute dresses with the built-in bra cups. Maybe even grab a swimsuit from the sale rack while I’m at it. Find some friends and play tag out on the lawn, ask someone to time me running the mile. Just being able to sleep on my belly at night would be heaven.
But I’d be lying if I said there were absolutely no perks to being busty. For example, boobs can make a truly fabulous perch for laptops. Kittens and ice cream also have a tendency to chill there. They’re also quite handy for catching randomly falling objects, anything from necklaces to spiders. Oh, and let’s not forget their wonderful food-storing ability! Catching all of my crumbs since puberty, there’s no need to ever go hungry again, according to cleavage. Unfortunately, this is very true. Usually it’s easiest to just put a plate on my kitty perch and let gravity do the rest.
All kidding aside, yeah, sometimes there are nice things that go with being a size 30G. The only problem is, they are so far and few between it’s not rocket science to see the obvious: being busty sucks.
