Boobs. Can’t live with ’em.

The year I got my first period I re-read “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret” 4 times. My fondest desire was to get “it” and get boobs. Big ones. Lofty aspirations, I know. Is it any wonder I’ve ended up where I have? Both of these adolescent yearnings backfired so spectacularly that “be careful what you wish for” became, to me, the understatement to end all understatements. (It also planted the preposterous notion that I had a minute amount of “conjuring power” which led to some hilarious moments in my bathroom)
Beginning in 7th grade I “developed” as my Mom put it back then. Developed? Seriously? Yuck!!
Back then I hated the way she phrased everything. It was gross and embarrassing enough that she felt the need to refer to it in the first place but to further cement my unprepared, self-conscious humiliation by saying things such as “my daughter has developed” (I must insert here that these phrases were most often uttered in a Morticia Adams-esque dramatic stage whisper…. shudder, shudder) in what I can only assume was either a misguided effort to appear the mature contemporary mother or, the more likely, a strategic dangling of gossip-bait in an attempt to curry interest and/or attention out of anyone from her co-workers to the lady in the bank drive-through. It was always a point of humiliating contention with my sister and I that our Mother rampantly and with great relish, discussed anything and everything that happened to us with anyone and everyone as though it were a personal triumph/tragedy/anecdote that simply could not be contained. She was Pandora on self-administered sodium thiopental.
(members of my family might enjoy revising these details to suggest that I sprouted Jessica Simpson-like double D’s in 6th grade, to create a more riveting tale… but let’s remember who lived this story)
Back to the boob issue…
I -STAGE WHISPER- developed and developed and developed. I was (I believe in being pragmatic so no pretense of humble bullshit here) a cute girl with a rockin figure from the get-go. Funny how you never appreciate how great your body once was until its 6 sizes bigger, mushy, lumpy, droopy, and stuffed sausage-like into some contemporary version of Victorian textile torture.
I was thin but muscular and sported the coveted hourglass with near perfect proportions including a fairly large set of eye-catching boobs.
The boobs were a pernicious influence on the creation of my self identity and only recently have I begun to understand the disservice this did me. Coupled with my mother’s life-long obsession with the boobs she never “developed” herself, the chest, and the attention it drew, was a recipe for psychological disaster.
Considering the already tenuous hold my lump of grey mush had on shit, I suppose this dollop of emotional whip cream could have done worse damage than leaving me an identity quagmire scented suspiciously like BDD.
“The boobs” have gotten me boyfriends, girlfriends, insincerity, dumped, loved, hated, hired, fired, propositioned-good and bad, and soul vandalized by creepers who wouldn’t dream of spewing such vile insulting hate-trash to anyone else (I’m certain my sisters in DD plus boob jail will attest that the audacity of working, shopping, eating, walking in public etc. with large breasts is akin to wearing lingerie and loitering on street corners in the minds of many misogynistic hate mongerers).
Learning early on that you are a stupid whore simply because of the way your body happened to -ugh-“develop” is more of a roadblock to future success than you might think.
I know you’re thinking, “gee, that big-boobed dummy should have just been smart enough to realize that she could use her body to her advantage!” And YES! I could have used “the boobs” to get ahead in a multitude of ways – from harmless flirting (OK, of course I actually did this, what girl with a brick house brought up in America wouldn’t? ) to sleeping my way to, well, …somewhere ( this I actually did not do, though as with many accusations in my life I feel like if I were going to be accused I should at least have gotten to enjoy the rewards, sheesh).
Or I could’ve realize the dream of every big breasted dummy in America and become a stripper.
Unfortunately it took me a ridiculous amount of time to realize that I could have gotten further another way. Silly little me went about my life trying to be kind and funny and likable – which, lets be clear, got me absolutely NOWHERE- before trying smart and bitchy and cut-throat, which ALMOST got me somewhere, but my confused inner big-boobed psuedo-whore panicked and unleashed a firestorm of self-doubt and loathing that neatly derailed that train.
I can hear the Misogynarmy now “Phew! That was close! One of them almost got away! See prodigies, trainees, and our offspring who don’t know any better than to follow in the footsteps of social retardation outlined by your parents…. this is why we start beatin’ those whores down young!”
Suffice it to say that, along with a Molotov cocktail of other emotional and psychological problems, this factored into my epic failure at life in general.
On to less sad sad crap.
After the birth and breast feeding joy joy ride of my first child, I was perturbed to discover that my already ample breasts had actually gone up a size for good. This was, at the time, ok … I was ambivalent about it in the exact opposite way that I was ambivalent about my ever expanding ass.
8 years, 40 lbs, and an after 30 2nd child later I was no longer ambivalent in ANY way.
Gone forever were the lovely perky tatas of my misbegotten youth!
My breasts had expanded to a size so embarrassing and unimaginable that even my dearest friend Victoria couldn’t clothe them anymore. I was depressed, trapped even… held captive by the contents of my closet. Nothing fit these monstrosities and if anything did it was because I bought it 4 sizes too big to account for the problem and it subsequently hung off everywhere else like a tarp.
I decided that the semi-deflated carnival balloons I was folding into my darling new beige lunch lady bras everyday were not only a threat to the environment but to my mental and emotional well-being.
They had to go. Within 30 days, I found a plastic surgeon, got insurance approval and had surgery scheduled for the following month. Then I had my pre-op appointment at which the kind surgeon explained that since my freak-ass anomaly tits were still producing breast milk (though I had not breastfed at that point for approximately 14 months) I couldn’t have the surgery. I went to my family doctor, discussed my problem and decided to wait it out. Surgery was postponed for another month.
At the beginning of the year, I had made some changes based upon my family doctor’s suggestion that I lose 20 lbs before surgery.
My body was out of control, among other things that we will discuss later. I needed to do something, so I found a determined and dedicated personal trainer on Craigslist who would come work out with me at home so I didn’t have to battle my growing agoraphobic tendencies, and I began to work out.
I worked out 4-6 days a week, and within 4 months had lost 20 lbs.
I am very proud of this.
Unfortunately during this period I also realized that the breast milk was never going away (YES it is still with me today). I cancelled my surgery and accepted the loss of critical mass that my work-outs had produced. At least they were no longer in danger of a supernova.
Currently in my mid-thirties, I have no doubt that “the boobs” and I are not finished with our adventures, but I have experienced such a kaleidoscope of
Yankovic-like weirdness due, in part, to their existence that I feel, at least today, that we have come full circle. No pun intended.