28AAA

This is the story of my breasts.  My wonderful, horrible lumps of flesh that have tantalized and tortured, nurtured and embarrassed.  I have a complicated history with my boobs.  They started to grow when I was just 9 years old.  My first bra was purchased at the Macy's in Union Square in San Francisco.  I was much more excited about riding in a taxi for the first time (and bitterly disappointed it was a yellow station wagon and not a classic yellow cab). 

But that's when my complicated relationship with my breasts began.  When they became more than just... well, when they just became. 

I remember what I wore on that autumn day.  It was my favorite dress - a stone washed denim dress with silver buttons that cut cross the left of my chest and then back down to my navel.  It was 1989, after all.  My long hair was in scrunchie (side pony tail, of course) and I was going shopping with my mom in San Francisco.  It was one of the last family weekends we had (funny, how I remember this now as I type - my parents had been divorced for 3 years but there we were, away for the weekend together).

I was fitted for a bra by an actual bra lady not just my mom.  We were on one of the top floors in Macy's.  I felt incredibly grown up.  I felt like I was in a movie - glamorous at age nine.  We settled on a white cotton bra, no underwire, just thin white cotton triangular cups.  Size: 28AAA. I was thrilled to have a bra and I remember once we got back to the hotel room, showing my poor Dad my bra strap by pulling my dress collar off to the side.  I wore the bra out to dinner that night.  We ate Italian.

Once the weekend ended and we were home, I remember not having to wear my bra absolutely every day.  It was just for fun at that point.  It was definitely NOT the most comfortable thing to wear.  It itched.  It was hot. It bunched up.

And then I was in the 6th grade.  Oh, I had boobs.  I definitely had boobs and HAD to wear a bra.  I think I might have only been a 32A at that point and in 7th grade I leaped to a 34B.  I had the cutest bras in the 7th grade.  Pink ones, blue ones, patterns like you wouldn't believe.  I loved my bras.  My mom and I bought them at Ross.  My breasts were awesome.  I had them!  I wore bodysuits and BONGO jeans.  I felt totally cute while my sexuality awakened.

And then it woke up.  In the 8th grade I filled out even more... By now I was a 34C.  My mom mandated underwire bras.  As only hindsight can express, I had a wonderful body - too bad my 13 and 14 year old self was beyond self-conscious.  I was 5'7", 135 pounds and wore a 34C cup.  I was a woman - in junior high.  My girlfriends were barely 5'2" and 110 pounds.  Some hadn't even crossed over the 100 pound (or five foot) mark yet.  I felt obese.  I weighed 20 pounds more than any of my friends.  I had moved past the cute B boobs of the 7th grade to the slightly grotesque mongo C tits of the 8th grade.  The only girl with bigger boobs than me was Hope: the incredibly fat white girl with greasy brown hair who rode the same bus as me.  In her desperation to flirt, she took off her bra on the bus to prove she wore a 38D cup.  The tag was faded and dirty and no one wanted to touch her brassiere.

During this same period, I was whistled at for the first time.  I was 12.  I thought they were whistling at my mother. We were walking back to the car after grocery shopping.  I was incredibly embarrassed yet secretly pleased.  I didn't know what to do with myself.  Should I look at the guys?  Look at the ground?  Was I supposed to be offended?  It felt good to be considered attractive but I was clueless how to respond.

I also had no idea how to respond to my boobs first nicknames. The oh-so-clever moniker's Bill & Ted were thrust upon my bosom.  Bill & Ted became my foes for P.E. class. 

Starting in 7th grade we had to "dress down" for P.E. in the incredibly unattractive uniform of kelly green sweat shorts and a cotton t-shirt.  Having a C cup meant having to clutch my boobs when I did jumping jacks or ran.  I made up every excuse I could think of to get out of P.E. or I would revolt and simply walk instead of run.  When I outgrew my awesome and darling 34B bras, I gave them to a girl in my P.E. class.  One of the bras had polka dots.  I would totally wear that bra today if I could.  It was super cute.

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So two days ago I called three plastic surgeons to set up consultations for a breast reduction.  Only one of the three takes insurance.  I meet with Dr. Schneider on March 2.  I'm a little nervous.  I'm not sure if I'm ready to say good bye to the girls.  They've been with me for so long...  I used to really hate them but after nursing two children, I have a healthy respect for them and I don't hate them anymore. 

This blog is the story of my breasts.  I'm not sure when or where it will end.  My boobs have been my friend and they have absolutely been my enemy.  We've called an emotional truce for the most part but there hasn't been a physical truce.  My upper back aches so much that I take ibuprofen almost every night to sleep; I have permanent grooves in my shoulders from bra straps; I am unable to purchase bras in my correct size (I think I'm a 35F or G and I'm stuck wearing a 36DDD because it's the closest, most affordable option); in hot weather I have to apply antiperspirant under my breasts to avoid breakouts and rashes; I still cannot run or do any vigorous activity because the only sports bra that MIGHT work on my is a $90 contraption that has to be special ordered from one magazine and I doubt it will work as advertised; my posture is atrocious; most clothing doesn't fit me properly.

I've had these complaints for over a decade and I am now ready to explore a breast reduction as more than just fantasy.  I'm just not sure if I'm ready to take the scalpel.  My breasts have been mine, for better or worse, for over twenty years. No matter when I finally do it (this year or in four, as my original plan), I will mourn the loss of my girls.