I Hate My Boobs - OR - A Strange New Hat

I’ve always had big boobies. I was the first girl in my grade to get them – at the tender age of 10 or 11. The pre-pubescent boys were fascinated with my chest swellings, as were the other girls, for entirely different reasons, of course. I, on the other hand, was not amused. I hated them! I didn’t want them! And I dang sure didn’t want to wear a bra. It was all just “too girly” for a tomboy like me.

By the time I hit my mid-teens, I was much more appreciative of my “blessings.” I had outgrown my tomboy stage by that time, and I had a keen interest in the opposite sex. I found that my bustline was a definite asset in my quest to attract the attention of potential suitors. So for this short span of just a few years, my boobs and I had an amicable relationship.

I got married the first time when I was just eighteen. At nineteen, I had my first baby. The “twins,” my acquired nickname for the breasts, went crazy. They grew. And grew. By the time the third baby was born, they were huge – 46 GGs. Nope, that’s not a typo. Gs – as in a b c d e f G. I no longer liked “the girls.” They were heavy and cumbersome. They got in the way. I resented having to carry them with me everywhere I went. I have permanent grooves on top of my shoulders from “toting” them around.

When I come in the house from being out somewhere, the first thing I do is report to my bedroom and remove that instrument of torture – the “boulder holder.” If hubby sees me doing it, he’ll joke and say, “Release the twins! Stand back, everybody!”

A few years ago, I began experiencing pain and strange sensations in my left arm, left shoulder, and the left side of my neck. My primary care physician said I had nerve damage either from weight lifting or from carrying around the twins for all these years. I went to a specialist who said it was most likely a direct result of supporting the heavy breasts, and she suggested a breast reduction. Sounded good to me, so I checked into the procedure.

A lady who had recently had a breast reduction gave a talk at work one day, so of course, I attended. Everything was going great until I heard these words:

“Then they cut off the nipples and re-position them. They’re sewn back on in their new places. There is some discomfort involved.”

Discomfort?? Dang, I think I’d rather slide down a razor blade into a bucket of alcohol! That’s a VERY sensitive body part. I couldn’t find the door quick enough. So much for the boob job. Guess I’d just have to learn to love them.

The twins have provided some unique adventures. Once I was shopping for bras with a very close male friend. The sales lady approached me and asked if she could help me:

“Yes, ma’am, I need some new bras.”

She led me to a collection of frilly little lacy numbers with narrow straps.

“No, I’m looking for some real bras,” I told her.

“Honey, these are real bras. They’re available in cup sizes up to double D,” she explained. Her eyes went immediately to my chest, and since I wear minimizer bras to hide their immensity, I guess she was confused.

“No, I mean REAL bras – the ones made by blacksmiths!” My guy friend laughed so hard he got choked on his chewing gum. I had to do the Heimlich maneuver right there in the middle of the store.

Another time, the Elks’ Lodge my husband and I are members of was conducting a meeting about hiring a summer lifeguard for the pool. We weren’t in attendance, but we heard about the discussion. My friend, Jill, was there and told me about it later. A male friend raised his hand.

“We really don’t need a lifeguard. Holle Abee is at the pool every day, and she has built-in flotation devices,” he offered.

Jill said no one laughed or even snickered. Another hand went up.

“Yeah, with those twins of hers, she could save three or four kids, easy. I vote we don’t hire a lifeguard.”

This happened before I got my own pool in my own back yard. After that, the lodge did have to hire a lifeguard!

Another time, some friends, the Joneses, called and invited us over. I told Betty, the wife, that I really didn’t feel like putting on a bra because my shoulder was hurting. She assured me nobody would be there but the four of us, so I could come bra-less. We went, but I carried along my bra in case unexpected visitors showed up. We had a pleasant evening, but by the time we got home, I realized I had left my bra behind. I started giggling.

“What’s funny?” Johnny, my husband, asked.

“It’s silly. I guess I’m just paranoid,” I answered.

“About what?”

“I was just worried about Betty and Mark examining my bra or something. I know, it’s crazy.”

“Why would they bother your bra? I’m sure they have lots better things to do. They probably won’t even notice your bra!” Johnny assuaged my fears.

The next day, Mark came over to our house, with my bra in a plastic grocery bag.

“You left this at the house last night. You won’t believe what happened. As soon as y’all left, Betty found the bra and put in on her head like a cap. We decided it would be great for this winter! One hat for me and one for Betty!” Mark exclaimed.

Aha! I had been right, after all.

I worry about how the twins will end up. They don’t defy gravity, and they seem to get a little lower every year. They’ll probably eventually be like my friend’s grandmother’s boobies. I’ll explain.

Lou’s granny was bedridden and was semi-comatose. She had to wear adult diapers. The family was taking turns watching Granny, and finally, it was Lou’s first time sitting with her grandmother. She recounted the experience later:

“Granny soiled herself when I was there, so I had to clean her up and change her diaper. The diapers had to be taped on her because she’s lost so much weight. When I was done, I was so proud of myself for doing such a great job all by myself. I stood back to admire my handiwork and realized Granny’s boobs were in her diaper!”