Boobs, Tits and Sweater-bags….

(This will probably backfire on me but oh well, I felt compelled. And more retrospective. And lightweight proud of these things. And ashamed.)

I went training bra shopping with my Dad. I was 11 years old and about to head into middle school when over the summer, my cycle started and I sprouted. And I mean sprouted. When the lady at Sears (don’t judge, my Dad didn’t know where else to go) measured me, she laid the news on me as if I had a deadly disease, “You, young lady, are a 36C”. My Dad’s face said it all. If I could encapsulate his facial emotions, it would be “I need to hide my daughter. Now!”

From that point on, I knew that these things we like to call breasts would forever change my life … and change how I would be addressed.

In 7th grade, I was poked repeatedly in the right boob with a pencil by a boy named Andrew. In 8th grade, I got in trouble for NOT wearing a bra to school. In high school, I made it a point to hide them. In college, I thought they shrunk but instead they grew. 38 DD. The Dynamic Duo. At a party, I was called “Pretty Tits” For a few days, I said that shit with pride. Later, I would cry about it.

Then, I was asked if I was down to “titty fuck”. Next, was “pumpkin tits” (thanks, AJ). Then it was “you love sports and you have big boobs”. Then it was “those tits are awesome”. Then it was the pre-requisite “grab them while making out” move. Then it was “I really have to dig in the bottom drawer at Victoria Secret and pray” maneuver.

When my confidence was low, I’d look down at them and say “I guess you’re all I got”. I can’t hide them, I won’t get a reduction. They’re just there. But that’s the problem. They won’t go anywhere, so the bullshit things said to me won’t either. The feminist inside of me wants to cry. The misogynist in me wants to walk around without a shirt on. The person that I am has a love-hate relationship with them

Sometimes I wish my Dad actually took the time to find a hiding place for me.