My boob popped out of my tank top in yoga today. It was during side plank, and of course right as the instructor was about to give me an “adjustment.” As he took a quick detour to the left, I tried to summon the appropriate amount of embarrassment, but to be honest all I felt was pride. Pride that I had enough boobage to fall out in the first place, because there was a time in my life when I feared I never would. I imagine it’s similar to the pride a mother feels watching her toddler walk for the first time…but greater.
I know that we women give you men a hard time for being so obsessed with our boobs, but truth be told…we are more obsessed with them than you are. Did you know that they sell nipple cream? And that we buy it?
It’s definitely the first body part I ever remember noticing. When I was a little girl—with pink tadpole nipples—I marveled at my mother’s big, squishy breasts, thinking, “Gosh, I’m lucky to be a girl. Because I get to grow up and have those too!”
To be clear, I was never “turned on” by breasts. I did, however, instinctually get that they had something to do with sex. They set us apart from men in a way that even the vagina doesn’t. I could feel their power when I pressed up against them in my pigtails.
Imagine my surprise when the other girls’ boobies began to sprout, but mine remained in the larval stage.
Imagine my hurt when an 8th grade boy reached down my shirt, felt my “boob” and then said to the 7th grader standing next to him, “You’re right, she doesn’t have any.”
And imagine my disappointment when all they’d managed to be by college were two smooth, barely sloping speed bumps.
Still, I loved my boobs. I liked the way they stood at attention. I liked the way the veins blushed blue through my skin and how pink and dainty my nipples were…and still are.
Yes, I wished I had bigger boobs. Yes, I asked God why I didn’t get the gift of great big melons. But she told me that one girl couldn’t have everything (at least not naturally) and that I was instead blessed with a forever-flat tummy and great hair. “Be thankful,” she said.
But did I feel any less of a woman? Did I feel as though I weren’t as sexy as those with full Cs and double Ds? I didn’t. I really and truly didn’t.
Not even when men tried to make me feel that way. One ex-boyfriend suggested a boob job on more than one occasion. Even after we broke up he called to let me know that a reality show was casting girls who wanted a free boob job. “Because I remember you saying you wanted one,” he said.
Desires so frequently get flip-flopped in relationships. I once bought a sandwich maker for a boyfriend. “I’m not the one who wanted a sandwich maker,” he said. “That was you.” Oops.
I never wanted a boob job. I get to run and jump and do yoga braless. There’s a certain freedom that the amply endowed don’t get to enjoy.
Men don’t leer at me. If I had big boobies, I don’t think I’d still be alive. I might not be the first choice in a room full of women—big boobs will always beat a pretty face and great hair—but when a guy notices me…he notices me. And I think that makes me pretty darn lucky.
Even better? I get to flaunt erect nipples through barely there tanks and it’s alluring without being obscene.
My boobs have grown. I don’t know how. Maybe all the yoga? In fact, my boob-obsessed ex asked me just the other day, “Did you get a boob job?”
“Nope. Did you get a lobotomy?”
Although I cannot say I’m a B, I’m an extremely healthy sized A…an obedient handful. They bounce and flop around. They will never sag to my knees—that is an unfortunate burden I happily leave to the busty.
My boobs have served me well. And while I will not be attracting the men to whom big boobs are important (everyone deserves to get the body part they crave) I will be attracting the men who want boobs that last a lifetime. Because these babies of mine are going the distance.