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Breast Size: Getting used to your chest... and relaxing
The year that I turned twelve, my three best friends got bras. I was nowhere near needing one, but that was all good with me. I was like Christina Ricci's character in "Now and Again" (which, by the way, was my all time favorite movie at the time), except that I had no breasts to hate yet. I hated the thought of getting them. While my friends showed off their lacey pretties at sleepovers, I proudly strutted in my white cotton undershirt.
I have always refused to be a Barbie doll, even at this age (which is a little harder when you're blonde and tanned to boot). I didn't wear a stitch of makeup until I was sixteen. And I was proud of it. I wouldn't wear anything I didn't like, or anything just to get attention (from boys). That is not my point in being on God's good earth. I hate to be type-cast, or be anything I'm not. I didn't want a chest, and refused to pretend that I had one.
When I turned thirteen, I still did not need a bra, to my sheer joy. I prayed that I would not developed every single night, and, upon close inspection every morning, I would thank the good lord that I hadn't.
And then... I turned fourteen. 28A. My mother made me. I was still doubtful as to the real necessity of this little pink satin contraption, but there it was, staring at me every morning from my underwear drawer like a Cyclops through the one red rosebud that spent the day resting between my walnut-sized bosoms. And I wore that bra for a year and a half. Why? Because it was all I needed, joy of joys. I wasn't bitter, or some anti-femininity chick. I just wasn't into getting breasts. That wasn't my thing. Figure skating and art were my things, and I lived in slight horror that if - heaven forbid - I did develop, it would be "overnight", which would wreck my spins by throwing my balance off.
Which is exactly what happened. When I was about fifeteen and a half, I lost fifeteen pounds of "baby fat" in 2 months. From the time I was fourteen, and a 28A, I went up to a 32A. By the time I was fifeteen, nearly sixteen, I was still only a (small) 32B. Which was fine with me. I looked better in sweaters now, I thought. That was okay.
By 3 months after my sixteenth birthday, I fit a very large 32B. 3 months after that, I was a good sized 32C. In the past four months, I have gone from a large 32C, through a 34C, to a large 34C. In the past three weeks, I've become a good sized 34D.
Out of my three afore mentioned friends, one is a C. And here I am, growing like a proverbial weed. I bought new bras a month ago. Now they don't fit any more.
I look longingly at dainty, lacey, ribbon strapped little things, in pastel or vampy colours. And then, force myself to continue to hope that the "shoulder boulder holder" type section is having a sale on colours other than the ones my grandmother would pick. It's not that you can't find nice bras in bigger sizes for girls with average rib cages. But heck, bras are expensive and, as your average teenager, I can't afford to shell out every few weeks or months. I gladly will when I'm older, have more money, stop growing, get a job at Victoria's Secret with a 20% discount...
I'd say, over all, I have a love/hate relation ship with my girlie bits. More hate than love at times, but it could be worse, and what right do I have to say that God made me wrong? I come from a long line of short, ox-like, big busted Russian peasant woman. Genetics are stronger than my vain hopes (hey, at least the ox-like part didn't show up!).
The thing that gets to me is the rude (or at least insensitive) comments, from boys and girls. Some girls, or women, seem to feel that they have a right, being the same sex as you, to make comments on the size of your chest. I was buying a tank top once, but decided against it, because.....ahem, I don't like to have hang out all that much. But anyway, the sales lady (who could have been in her thirties or forties, I think) comments as I come out of the change room to show the shirt to my friend "Well,"(insert patronizing smile, half laugh that only middle aged nosey women can do) "We're quiet endowed, aren't we?" Mind, I doubt this overly helpful sales clerk was more than an double-A, so I'll give her jealously (as my friend who was with me suggested in an over-loud whisper as the woman left). Personally, I just thought it was a bit tacky.
And then, guys seem to feel that just because you have breasts and they don't, it's reasonable for them to stare, drool, and be as obnoxious in that special way that only obnoxious bundles of cocky testosterone feel they have the right to be. I have had total male strangers come up, tell me I have "a nice rack" (direct quote, care of a hockey player after my skating practice one day), and expect me to be delighted by the compliment. When I'm not (big surprise), they mutter about PMS, how girls should make up their minds about what they want, and so one, and so on...
But, if you can't beat them...No, don't join them! Laugh! At your self! At them!
This summer, I worked at a beach side job, living in dorms. One day, I was in the girls lounge, and we were discussing this very topic. Now, because this place was right next to a beach, we always wore swimsuits under our clothes. Forgetting I currently wasn't, in the middle of this conversation I flashed my friend, for a joke. She just started laughing, and said "Nice knockers. They are a wee bit big, aren't they?"
At this same place, about a week later, some friends and I were swimming. Now, you must understand, the three guys that were there are the least sexually active, or sexually driven seventeen-year-olds on the planet. I'd just met the one a few days earlier, so this was the first time he'd seen me in a bathing suit. After we swam we got out on the water and were tanning on the dock. I was lying on the stomach (won't elaborate, you figure it out), when my other friend (a girl), laughed and said "Hey, Drew, stop looking at her chest". Now, this is a different case than guys perversely checking you out, and he was a bit red in the face because he is not at all like that. So I just laughed it off, and said something like "What, with these babies? I doubt it".
But, heck, when you've got a mass of fat sticking out just below eye level, you can't always get all witchy about stuff like that. When a person has a big nose, people stare. Yeah, so your chest's more private. That's partly why eyes are drawn to it. Some ladies need to relax a little.
So, there it is, my nice little thoughts on chests, mine or otherwise. My words of wisdom: "Learn to relax, be thankful for what you've got, and don't take your chest too seriously."
by Tiff Unger