At age 10, toward the end of fifth grade, when other girls were budding, I was skinny and bony with not an ounce of even baby fat. I was as flat as a boy.
At age 11, when their buds turned to boobettes and their moms bought them Wonder Woman Underoos and sets that came with training bras, I took a sleeveless undershirt and cut the bottom off; and then, with a large red rubber band for elastic, I fashioned my own training bra. I was still as flat as a skinny boy.
When 12-year-old girls were getting real bras with actual A cups… yup, still flat as a skinny, picked-on boy.
At the end of 8th grade, I lifted my shirt to show my mother my buds… she saw nothing; but my best friend told me I needed to always wear undershirts cuz it looked like I had two pebbles under my t-shirts.
I started high-school with cute little lace bras… lingerie, my cousin called it… 26AA.
Buds, boobettes, boobs, breastesses, jugs, knockers, etc. My best friend had gozongas and I had itty bitty titties… and prayer.
At 15, the boys at church called me “Nubs”.
“We must we must we must increase our bust” was my mantra. Exercising my pecs did nothing to increase my practically concave bosom.
By the end of high school, I’d finally achieved real breasts — a perfectly firm and perky 34b (lowercase B for emphasis). I spent my first year at college bouncing bralessly, popping birth control pills, and wishing on stars.
After a year at college, I came home a 34D! I nearly cried in the corset shop fitting. The half-inch valley between my breasts was officially considered cleavage, and I could now call my bosom “My Girls”!
I was proud of my girls… oh so proud! I showed them off everywhere I went. No venue or event was safe from a generous view of my girls… church, weddings, funerals… you name it… everybody got a glimpse. I’d drive around in just a bra, flashing truckers and drive-thru workers. My girls even saved me from tickets when I got pulled over!
Be Careful What You Wish For!
Remember that story about the boy who over-fed his goldfish and the fish wouldn’t stop growing? Yeah… well… it seems the combination of pills, prayers, and french fried potatoes is like fish food for boobs. I went from 34D to 38DD (woohoo!) to 40F (umm…ok?)… topping out at 44H (WTF?)!
Having overflowed into gozonga territory, yet still proud of my rack of awesomeness, I soon learned the folly of attaining my deepest wish… boobsweat… that came with chafing and rashes and underwires that broke free and tried to stab me through the heart. No more cute frilly bras with lace straps or tank-tops and camisoles with built-in support. I now needed full sized, barely flexible, highly expensive brassieres!
I’m almost 60 now… and the girls are tired and drooping… and after significant weight loss, I’m at 38G. I still sometimes prop them up in a low-cut brassiere and let them get a bit of sun. I don’t wear anything form fitting, but I will rock a loose, cut-up t-shirt.
And sometimes… I still look down and impress myself.
Best thing I've read today. I can so relate.
Ah yes, being careful what we wish for....