Coming to Terms

For most of my life my breasts have been a source of self consciousness. That is probably normal for most girls. While penis size is a boy's biggest concern growing up, girls tend to worry about their breasts and when they will finally develop and they'll begin to look like women. The difference between girls and boys, of course, is that boys can keep their insufficient penis size hidden for quite a long time, basically until they start having sex. On the other hand, a girl's assets are in full view for the world to see, tease and poke fun at. Girls secretly try to encourage full breasts by doing crazy exercises. Remember the chant "we must, we must, we must increase our busts?" Then there were the tissue stuffing techniques and padded bras. Recall Margaret in Judy Blume's "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret?" Poor Margaret was obsessed with her development rate, or lack thereof.

While all this was going on for the girls around me, I honestly couldn't relate. I know girls thought I was lucky to have to wear a bra in the 5th grade, but believe me, I did not feel fortunate as one of the only two girls in the 5th grade wearing a bra. And not a training bra, mind you. Mona Rubenfeld, the other over developed 5th grader, and I were endowed enough to have to wear actual grown up bras with hooks and all. Although I think we were both secretly mortified, we were probably the envy of the girls and a source of fantasy for the boys in our class. It was tough times for a couple of fairly innocent 5th graders.

These mammaries just kept on growing. Nothing could stop them. I started dieting and exercising at age 12. I realized these over sized boobs did not exactly make me look slim. In 1975 slim was definitely in. Marsha Brady, Susan Day, Cher, these were the women girls wanted to look like back then. Furthermore, halters and tube tops were the rage. I wanted to fit in.

Although I kept my weight down in general, it was never enough. Once, years ago, while shopping for bras at Nordstrom (the best place to buy bras for the full-figured gals), the sales woman walked into the dressing room shouting "where's my 32 Double D?" because she couldn't remember what room she had put me into. Humiliated, I stuck my hand up over the door and squeaked out "I'm over here." Seeing me blush, she tries to encourage me, "honey, don't be embarrassed, women would kill for your figure." Umm, that is definitely not the case, believe me. I've spent years with these things and NO ONE is ever envious. I've received comments like "you have your mother's figure" (not a compliment if you knew my mother. Lovely woman, however...). "Wow! You have huge boobs" (not exactly subtle), and "I would have done something about those things years ago."

It's only been in recent years that I've come to terms with these babies (sort of). They are there and they are just part of me, I suppose. Some women have muscular arms, some women have fabulous legs, I have these ample breasts. C'est le vie.

Last week I had my annual mammogram. Anyone over forty, and some women younger than forty, can relate to the somewhat painful, humiliating and possibly even scary procedure of the mammogram. I stood at the machine as the technician handled my breast like a piece of ham, slapping it up onto the glass plate, pushing, pulling, arranging it this way and that and then clamping down on the vice, crank, crank, craaaaank one last time. It took my breath away. "Breathe normally," she said. Is she serious? I was practically holding my breath so not one millimeter of skin would move even the slightest bit. I did not want to screw up and have a 'do over' for any part of this. On the last picture (two X-rays, two positions on each breast), she decided there was a slight wrinkle and we should do one more shot. Drats.

After feeling sufficiently man handled and hurriedly climbing back into the flimsy robe, she sent me back to the waiting room where the doctor would call me to review the results.

The outcome? My rather bodacious ta ta's got a clean bill of health! As annoying as it is that I cannot wear certain tops, that they make me look and feel even bigger than I am, and they interfere with my golf swing, I am very satisfied that they are, at least, healthy. And really, this matters more than the industrial sport bras, the constant teasing or any other messages society throws my way.