When I got boobs, I was far too young. At only 10 years of age those obtrusive vestiges stirred unseemly amounts of attention from bra-snapping boys.
By high school, I was firmly planted in a C-cup and while I enjoyed the sumptuous look of my chest in my blue velvet bustier, I still wore modest necklines and was embarrassed by the pointed looks from the opposite and often rude sex.
Those beauties seemed to bring about only problems, and after reading far too many teen magazines and failing the pencil test (you do know about the pencil test, don’t you?), I decided that they weren’t perky enough or the right size, shape, colour.
Eventually, love and marriage came and it didn’t matter what I thought about my own breasts because they were adored. With the birth of my first child I was blessed to be able to breastfeed and my boobs became not my own. They were huge and rock hard and were needed in a way never known before. The absence of them could wreak emotional catastrophes. Oddly, this made me feel both powerful and akin to a dairy cow.
I was shocked when, put out to breastfeeding pasture, my boobs deflated like old party balloons. Why hadn’t I been warned? If I had known about the post-pancake effect, maybe I would have treated my assets better, been kinder and less critical. Perhaps I would have staged those babies in deep v-necks with lariat necklaces snaking down the valley between.
Then again, my husband will likely text me, “It’s never too late!” after reading this and my worn breasts will feel like they’re in college again.