I have a complicated relationship with my boobs. For one thing, they arrived late and I’m nothing if not punctual. I detest, abhor, and refudiate being late: I am particularly persnickety about chronically late people, late planes, late checks and mostly, late boobs.
Life is too short to not have cleavage. I was in such a hurry to have boobs that when I was 8, I started jumping up and down in front of the bathroom mirror looking for signs of bounce. Zip. Zero. Nada.
When I was about 10, my mom got this book on puberty and I spent all kinds of time studying it, carefully watching my growth and then marking in the date when I’d achieved various stages on the boob growth chart. I was very proud of my progress. Also? I was an obsessive little kid with an emotional needle set on the highest frequency. Any little pang, any little soreness was met with unbridled triumph! YESSSS! I’M GROWWWWING!
And I’d go running into the bathroom, jump up and down, look for signs of Bounce with a capital B. All I got was lower-case bounce. Still, I waited. I hoped. I did the exercises: I must, I must, I must increase my bust.
Alas, I never reached the final stage on the boob growth chart. My boobs just quit growing. I’ve never felt so phenomenally cheated, so betrayed. The chart had promised me melons. MELONS! And instead?
My friends started calling me: “Grapes of Wrath.” It was a crushing humiliation.
My girlfriends comforted me with assurances that big boobs were not awesome. They’re uncomfortable! They’re heavy! They hurt my back! You can have my big boobs if I can have your flat stomach and little waist!
I guess the grass is always greener on the other side of the underwire.
But wishing for big boobs was silly, really. What could I have done with them? I was a Super Modest fundamentalist. Which is short-hand for: We Strap Down Our Boobs With Duct Tape So We Don’t Stumble/Defraud/Cause-A-Man-To-Sin.
(Because, duh! It’s always the woman’s fault if a man lusts after her.) I remember this one time when we were discussing rape in our youth group and someone said: “Yeah, well. Was she dressed immodestly?” And that pretty much settled the problem of rape. If a woman dressed immodestly, it was her fault for getting raped. Obviously.
The point is, I was totally at war with myself. On the one hand, I wanted to be beautiful and womanly. On the other hand, I wanted to tamp down, duct tape and smother any sign of my feminine form. It was a recipe for psychosis, is what that was.
But finally, at long last, I received my wish. I got pregnant and my boobs? THEY MAGICALLY TRANSFORMED! Oh, the cleavage! Oh, the raw, primal, majestic booby-licious-ness! I felt so sexy, so womanly. This was SO much better than a tiny waist!
Best of all? They BOUNCED, yo. With a capital B!
I was the worst sort of cleavage-barer while I was pregnant. I was all: I’m sorry, did my HUGE MELONS just randomly fall out of my shirt? OOPSIES! You cannot believe how thrilled I was when I got pregnant with twins because seriously, there’s no way to cover up nursing twins. I would just plug ‘em in and walk around reveling in the freedom, the glory, the sheer awesomeness. (At home, peeps. Not in public. Sheesh.)
And then one day, it was all over. No more nursing. No more pregnancy. No more bounce.
Nowadays, it’s more like: flap, flap.
The good news: I totally don’t mind anymore. I love my stretch-marked, used up, flappy little boobs. These are my hard-earned battle scars. I’ve breastfed five human beings with these boobs. FIVE human beings are alive because of my Grapes of Wrath.
And that kind of super-power? Pretty much kicks cleavage’s butt.*
*although, I’m still saving for a boob job*
**for my next life, i mean. the one where AFTER i’ve ended poverty, brought about world peace and adopted all the children? then I’ll get my boob job**
***until then, you can call me Raisins of Wrath***