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My Cups Are Half-Empty
Anonymous
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I’ve always been the girl whose chest is as flat as the plank on a pirate’s ship. My 34A bra size hasn’t changed much since my funbags first sprouted in 5th grade. They’re the same old ice cream cone-shaped breasts (without the double scoop) that they’ve always been. I’m coping with them now, but there were times when they drove me nuts.

My mother unselfishly passed her flat chest on to my two sisters and me. I do commend her for her willingness to share, but I think my grandma’s secret recipe for stewed chicken would have been a better choice.

I was able to talk to my mom about my flat chest because she suffered from the same affliction. But she bummed me out when she told me that none of the breast-enhancing products that I’d seen advertised really worked.

I went from 5th grade to junior high with my unmistakably underdeveloped boobs. It was as if two alien life forms had latched onto my chest and decided to protrude only a few inches outward before stopping.

In junior high, it seemed like everyone had some cleavage: my friends, my teacher “Ms. Boobington,” even the dean—and he was a man. I just couldn’t escape those oversized mammary glands that everyone else had.

And I noticed that the media always publicized and encouraged big knockers. I wanted to have them too, just to fit in. Finally, I decided to take my melons into my own hands. I was going to make them bigger.

Stuffing my bra was out of the question in 6th grade, because the kids at school had already seen my flat chest. I had to make it seem like it had grown on its own. I decided to ask the one person I knew who was struggling as badly as I was—my twin sister.

She told me about a suggestion she’d gotten from her friend. I was supposed to massage my twins in a circular motion. I doubted it would work, but I tried it anyway.

I did it every day for 30 seconds and soon, to my surprise (or more correctly, to my delusion), it seemed as if my bust had gotten bigger.

image by Patricia Battles

But it turned out my eyes were playing tricks on me. One day my chest would look bigger and the next day it would look the same as before. I realized I’d let my eagerness for larger boobs get the best of me. I wanted bigger hooters so I saw myself with them. As it turned out, they were still small.

Not long after my big-boob mission failed, I saw an ad in a catalog at my house for some pills that were supposed to enhance bust size. I couldn’t order them because I didn’t have any money. And asking my parents for cash to make my bongos grow didn’t seem like an option. My quest to make Thelma and Louise larger didn’t end, but it was put on hold.

By 8th grade, my bazookas still hadn’t grown an inch. Most of the girls in my school had bigger breasts than me. I began to notice that the girls with the real grab bags got all the attention from the guys.

I wanted some attention too, even if it was negative, like construction workers hollering at a pretty woman walking down the street. I wanted acknowledgment for my honkers, too.

I was tired of guys comparing my chest to an ironing board, or holding a sheet of paper next to my chest and saying, “Look, twins.” I wanted to be more like “Buxom Betty,” who got the guys, and less like “Flat Felisha,” who got zip, zilch, nada.

In 8th grade, I started to like a guy in my class. We started talking, and pretty soon he found out I liked him. He gladly welcomed my advances. He saw how flat I was, but he never said anything about my breasts. When we started dating, his acceptance of me and my body made me realize that a large chest isn’t that important.

In fact, I think that if he’d seen my self-consciousness, he wouldn’t have dated me. I learned that my love cushions didn’t define me. They were just a tiny part of who I was (no pun intended).

But even now, in my senior year of high school, I haven’t totally stopped obsessing about my cones. Just last week I was looking at yet another ad on the Internet about some medication to increase my bust size. I only held off on purchasing it because I don’t have a credit card.

I still want bigger breasts and I don’t think that desire will burn out any time soon. But tatas are tatas, and I’m trying to be satisfied with the ones I’ve got. If they don’t get bigger, it won’t be the end of the world. Besides, skinny girls are in now, so I plan to have a little fun while my ladies are in style.

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(NYC-2006-11-21)



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