Some say there are “perks” to having large breasts. I’ve counted exactly two: excellent buoyancy and easy employment.
Any busty girl will tell you she can float for days because of the built-in flotation devices. And it’s nice to know the good people of Hooters will always employ the well-endowed.
But as a girl who “blossomed” almost overnight, I didn’t see any benefits.
Fifth grade had just started and I sat in the back of our muddy Dodge Dynasty, a car in desperate need of shocks, when my mom announced to the family that I had graduated out of training bras and into a C cup.
Riding in a car without shocks would never be the same. And the ta-ta’s kept growing.
It wasn’t long before my mom delivered me to my busty grandma to ask for help. “I just don’t know how to support them,” my mom said, gesturing to my chest as if monsters lurked under my shirt.
My 75-year old grandma took me shopping and introduced me to her favorite, cone-shaped Playtex bras. I shudder to think I spent my formative years with triangular-shaped boobs just like grandma.
I began to covet my friends’ flat chests as we would run drills at basketball practice. Sports bras were a joke. I knew a softball player who duck taped her breasts in an effort to keep them from flopping in her face as she rounded the bases. I’ve always wanted to try that.
No I didn’t see any perks. I had the blood-red stretch marks and leering glances from older men to prove it. Instead I saw shame and body loathing.
Click here for the rest of the story.
***This post breaks set form my usual writings. It appeared as a guest post for a body image blog, Working Out Love. I hope you enjoy the end of the story.
