Growing Up Busty
A 100th hub should be some kind of marker. I've stalled for days knowing it needs to be randy in topic and more that just another one of my poems. So I've decided to cheat. Hubpages unpublished one of my best grossing articles about six months ago. I've removed all the beautiful cleavage photos and all the naughty comments. So here is my story dusted off, from A to D.
We americans have a love affair with breasts. It permeates our culture and is magnified in our media. And as an eleven year old girl, it permeated me. I longed to have them. My sister and I would stick rolled up socks in our shirts and dance around pretending to be our buxom older sisters. I did pec. exercises and chanted, “we must, we must, we must increase our bust.” When I did finally blossom, I had a year of “coming along nicely” that in one summer turned into “what in the hell happened to you.” By the time I was 15 I had jumped from a B to a D and had the stretch marks to prove it.
My newly formed bust line created a wedge between me and my best girlfriends. I first realized this when I was no longer aloud to play the “does this shirt make me look flat” game. This is a game, for you guys that don’t know, that is played among young women. It's a bonding ritual acted out in front of bedroom and school bathroom mirrors. It is a game replaced later in life by the, “do these pants make my butt look too big” game. Another occasion the breast wedge reared its ugly head, was an evening my girlfriend and I were vying for the attention of this fox we spied while cruising. (Fox is what we called cute guys way back then. Cruising meant driving around in circles cause there is nothing else to do when you live in the sticks.) So my girlfriend and I would just see who the fox liked better, fair enough. “But no sticking your chest out,” she snapped at me. I rounded my shoulders as I had learned to do and lost track of my smile.
Guys were worse than girls of course, forgetting I had a face just six little inches north of there. But that was excusable. It was the comments, especially the ones from older guys. (keep in mind anything older than eighteen is OLD to a sixteen year old girl) I remember once walking through our mall, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. I was all excited about the new tricolor eye shadow I had just bought at Pay Less, when this older guy wolf whistled at me. I ignored him and hoped no one was looking at me. “Damn honey, you got a nice set of lungs on you,” he yelled at me across the mall. I rounded my shoulders, and lost track of my smile and made for the door.
The years went by and I learned to live with them. I still had bad days though, like shopping for bras. Lingerie departments always hang the pretty lacy bras on display. But when I’d ask to try one of these on, the sales lady would say, “I don’t know if we have any in YOUR size, but if we do they’re in that bottom drawer.” Luckily though times were changing. Breast implants were really starting to take off and that tipped the scales in my favor. There were more large breasted women around and Victoria Secret led the pack supplying bras and tops to support them. Like a kid in a candy store, I snatched up under wire bikinis, tank tops with built in bras, and blouses designed for curves. Thanks to all those lovely plastic surgeons passing out silicone like girl scout cookies, I was no longer big busted I had become mainstream!
The Day My Breasts Saved My Life
I don’t remember what I needed to put up there that day. Perhaps it was the case of wine glasses I got at the dollar store , or maybe it was a bag of baby bottles my breast fed son refused to entertain. Anything we didn’t know what to do with went up there. Up there was a loft. It could have been a second story, but it wasn’t supposed to be, at all. It just happened when our trusses didn’t show up and our contractor decided to stick frame our roof instead. Voila', a loft with no way to get to it. So it became our storage area that could only be gotten to by ladder. On this particular day, I was stashing something up there that needed stashing. And I was reaching it with a ladder that almost reached. The ladder was just tall enough that I could kinda hop off the top step and pull my belly up on to the floor of the loft, swing a leg over and be good to go.
I know what you’re thinking, don’t ladders have a sticker that say, “do not stand above this step.” Ya, but who listens to those overzealous ladder people really. So after stowing my stuff, I laid down on my belly and shimmied backward down to the ladder. I felt around with my toes and when I found the top of the ladder I let myself slide down on to it. Perhaps the uneven slate floor didn’t allow the ladder a solid footing, or maybe I was not properly centered, but as my feet found their way to the top of the ladder it decided to tip. One second I had a footing. The next second my feet were swinging under me and my fingernails were scratching into the loft floor, trying to stop the inevitable. I imagined the sound my head would make hitting the stone floor from nine and a half feet. Would it sound like a hard boiled egg? Would I be lying twisted and bleeding on the floor when my family came home? But then my decent was halted. My breasts had caught on the edge of the floor. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough time that my hands got a grip and my feet swung back and found a part of the ladder and balanced there. I carefully lifted my weight off the girls and scrambled to the floor. I think I started laughing immediately. My double ds had just saved my life.
How many times had I wondered why God had endowed me with large breasts but not the personality to carry them. Had they been given to me just to tantalize school boys who would never be allowed to touch them? Were they just intended to be play things for the men who would come later? Or was their most important role to be a four year stint in the over production of milk and staining of shirts biz? Today I finally knew the answer. When my creator was putting me together for my time on earth, he glanced at my life chart and said, “We’d better give her bigger boobs. They’re gonna have to save her life one day.”