Here’s a story that every girl can claim her own: When I was 9 years old, I had the biggest fourth-grade boobs in my class. So I always slouched over so my shirt wouldn’t rest upon them. And now look at me: the smallest boobs in the class and a permanent hunch-back pose.
You might think I’m a boy. Well, not really, but my two little buddies could scarcely be called hooters, jugs, knockers, or whatever. Not anything that would make a No Fear guy nudge his pals and say, “Whoa, duuuuudes!”
But, then again, I suppose there are a few advantages. I can run around like crazy without wearing a bra an not feel a thing. I can sleep face down. Guys at Knots Scary Farm can’t grab my boobs because, heck, there’s nothing to grab! I get to do those nightly “I must, I must, I must” break augmentation exercises. When I hug people, I can pull them closer to me. I don’t even have to think about paying thousands of dollars to have breast reduction surgery. (And implants have been proven unsafe, which is a great excuse not to get them.) I have the option not to torture myself in a huge, water-collector-looking, size double-D harness. I’m less likely to walk in dog poop because I can watch my step. I have no back problems. I won’t sag when I get old. And, best of all, I will not have to worry about accidentally suffocating my baby when I breast feed. Having small breasts is great! I love it!
Maybe I’m just trying to kid myself. All I want for Christmas is more boob tissue. No more socks, just honest-to-goodness flesh. Man, if I were a mermaid, I’d have to use oyster shells for a bra. Actually, last week, my friend Adela and I did have the chance to venture into the world of big breasts for a few minutes.
We were at Victoria’s Secret hunting for the Miracle Bra. We had both seen it on TV, but it wasn’t enough. We had to meet it, touch it, smell it, experience it. When we finally found the techni-color display table, we eagerly secured bras in our sizes. Adela’s was pine green. Mine was barfy purple. In my dressing room, I tore off my shirt and Jockey bra with the force of a sinning priest. Snap went the Miracle, on went my shirt, and our popped my eyes.
“Adela, I can’t believe it! I’m Elvira!” I laughed and laughed.
“I know,” croaked Adela next door, “It’s sick. I can rest drinks on these things.”
“Where did my feet go?”
“This thing should be a gag gift.”
“It’s a miracle, it’s a miracle!”
And so forth. As you might guess, we threw those bras back on the table and ran. I decided I was happy with chest. Hey, my situation isn’t rare. Whenever I want, I can slip into a Miracle Bra and be the big-breasted gal who lurks within me. A big girls can’t smash her boobs flat to be like me. I’m versatile. I can be pleasing to all. People like me. And I like my boobs.