Getting boobs was a big deal to me, even as young as I was. I was very aware of the allure of breasts and just how much they seemed to play a part in being considered both womanly and attractive. From older cousins and friends, many whom had already started puberty, I was taught that bigger was better when it came to boobs, while other parts of the body should remain smaller.
I distinctly remember the first time I noticed I had boobs. I awoke one morning, an average fourth grader, and all of a sudden I saw these squishy mounds on my chest. Being as I come from a “colorful” family, my first thought was “Who ordered the melons?” I remember them being quite prominent quite quickly. My mom, she of the A minus cup breasts and whose cup never overfloweth, was none too thrilled that her fourth grade child had bigger mammaries than her. She was the boobie underachiever in a family of very busty-and-proud ladies, and her only daughter deserted her, alone in the Land of Tiny Titties.
Within a few days, these new additions were already cramping my very busy 9-year-old style. I attended Catholic school and I wore white button-up shirts that now refused to button or would pop open in the middle of the day causing every boy I knew to stop and stare. Being a girly tomboy, these new accoutrement also seemed to constrict some of my athletic pursuits and became a new exciting target for dodgeball. They also just seemed to get in the way a lot and made my comfy shirts shorter and tighter. I was conflicted about my newly acquired upper deck.
My mother was trying to hold off on the memorable first bra purchase fearing it would lead to bigger puberty moments karmically, but my very proper Southern grandmother insisted on a wardrobe of bras immediately. No granddaughter of hers would be gallivanting around braless, be she nine or 19.
I remember my first bras as plain and functional, nothing like the uncomfortably seductive bras available to young girls today, and definitely nothing like the bras Madonna wore in her videos to my disappointment. Dreams of lace and bows were replaced with cotton and straps that were slowly slicing away layers of skin. I attempted an assertion of identity or at minimum a compromise, but both attempts were thwarted by the matriarchy with a death-stare and proclamation of, “There is no way in hell, Jessica Elizabeth.” Once I heard my middle name, I knew I would be in what I termed as “nun bras” until I was an employed member of society. Maybe not even then.
As weeks and months and years went by, I grew to love my boobs as they continued their evolution. As a result of my younger bra experiences, I am obsessed with pretty (but functional) bras and spend too much money on them. They still cause trouble and being a natural D cup, I am always running into them and have to wear a support system that seems to consists of levers, pulleys, and three physicists to keep them high and happy. But I LOVE my boobs. I wiggle them when I am sad. They catch food that misses my mouth or bobby pins that attempt to escape my hair.
Big or small, floppy or firm, boobs are the best.