Me, Myself and “Them”

I must have gotten my love of fashion from my mother. She wrote a style column for a women’s health monthly, and took home free copies of couture magazines with beguiling names like Crash, Oyster and Purple. As an idle sixteen-year-old I spent hours going through them, cutting out pictures to tape into my fashion “idea book.”I hoped to be a runway model myself, one day, and I had every reason to think I’d have a shot at it. First, I was pretty, with strong cheekbones and wide-set eyes. Also, my mother and big sister were both tall, with broad shoulders, and the natural elegance of Siamese cats. Modeling was in my genes. Mind you, I was still the shortest girl in my class, but that was surely temporary. Soon enough, puberty would finish the job it had started; my legs be as long as my Mom’s, and I would come into my natural inheritance of lean and angular beauty. As soon as that happened, I would fly off to Paris, and spend my days feeding on brioches and fending off papparazzi.Somehow, I overlooked the fact that there were women on my Dad’s side of the family, as well: a long line of curvy, swervy Sicilians, not one of them over five feet tall and every one of them a red-hot, sweater-bending “tettona.” Alas, it was from that gene pool that I inherited “the family ass”, my version of which is as smooth and plump as a Pachino tomato; and it was from that side of the family that I received the other great blessing and curse of my adult life: “them.”  When “they” arrived, it happened so fast I barely knew what hit me. It took me completely by surprise, because the boob fairy had already stopped by, quite a long time ago, leaving me with perky little booblets, nicely proportioned to my skinny frame. I figured they were all I’d get, and was fine with that, provided I grew eight or ten inches taller. But my body had other plans.If you haven’t gone through something like this, you might find it hard to appreciate how fast bahçelievler escort things can change. Sometimes a woman with big boobs will tell you “they grew overnight,” which really is how it feels. It doesn’t mean that they literally reached their full size in 12 hours. You don’t just go to bed as flat as a boy, and wake up with a couple of pumpkins in your PJ’s. But as strange as it sounds, that is exactly how it feels, even if it actually takes weeks or months.The changes affect everything in your life, and your mind and emotions can’t keep up.In my case, I went from a being able to count my upper ribs to not being able to see my feet, in a matter of weeks. When something like that happens, you have a lot of new stuff to deal with.  And, if you want to get complainy, you have lots to sob about, too.First: stretch marks. “Instatits” are really hard on your skin. As my boobs were stretching out my clothes, they were also stretching my skin, leaving a little fan of angry red lines around my armpits. The red faded away a long time ago, and I kind of like the little ridges that remain, but when it first happened I was devastated, and tearfully threw all my tank tops right in the burn barrel.Second, it’s really expensive. In the middle of my little growth spurt, I barely had time to snip the price tag off one bra before I had to go buy a new a bigger one. At first, you can get what you need cheap, at the local mall, but as you march up through the alphabet, the cost/cup ratio shoots up exponentially, and it gets harder to find anything that fits. If, like me, you have a tiny back (28“ band size!) and absolutely insane cups (I’m not telling), you can forget about looking good at a fair price.I had other kinds of adjusting to do, which took an emotional toll. My dream of being a model–at least the kind of model who poses in clothes–was made instantly yenibosna escort ridiculous. My modeling career was washed away in a flood of estrogen. I pretty much stopped growing taller. I topped out at a bit over 5 feet, if I stand bolt upright with my chin in the air (“tits out,” as my fitness coach says). With my slim waist and dainty shoulders, I am an extreme example of what fashion gurus call an “hourglass body type”. In my case, there is enough sand in the glass to place haute couture well out of reach. I can pull off certain looks–Japanese street fashion is my go-to style–but, classic fashions just look strange on me. To turn Bogey’s words around, “I will never have Paris.”I gave up ballet, the day I caught an eyeful of my distended Danskins in the studio mirror. It‘s hard to perform a perfect sissone, with a massively unbalanced upper body joggling around chaotically, and eight inches of cleavage-sweat drenching your leotard. I gave up sleeping face down, and began wearing a bra under my nightie, because I was constantly sore. I stopped running, because of “them.” Even a brisk walk can get a certain fatal rhythm started, and if you don’t pause once in a while to break up the bouncey-bounce, you will literally stop traffic.Which brings me to the main fact of life any girl with huge boobs has to face. Wherever you go, no matter how you dress, “they” will attract attention. In fact, they’ll attract all the attention. You will have to get used to living in their shadow, eclipsed by your own tits. They will be more popular than you, more interesting than anything you say and more entertaining than anything you do.You might feel, as I sometimes do, as if you are tagging along with two really cool, outgoing friends that everybody wants to meet. If the conversation isn’t literally about them, it is often directed to them. People (and not just guys) şirinevler escort literally talk to your boobs, as if they were not just unusually big, but also sentient. You become this sort of quiet, distant person, watching the party from the far side of the tits.It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just how we’re wired. When you have boobs like mine, your whole body shape implies “sex,” whether you mean it to or not. You can try to have an ordinary conversation about sport or the weather, but “they” will interrupt you with their favorite topic, sex. You will be talking to a guy, and all of a sudden he will blush, and look past you, and you know that he is trying, and failing, not to think about sex, because that is what your boobs are saying to him, over and over again. Sex. Sex. Sex.Nobody is immune. Respected elders–teachers and coaches and ministers–will make the mistake of glancing, ever so briefly, at your chest, and become flustered and start talking too fast. Girlfriends can’t help making bawdy jokes about them, which I suppose is their way of working out whatever “boob issues” they have (and what girl doesn’t have those?). Strangers snap pictures of them from car windows. Female lovers will envy them, and male lovers will keep finding new and creative ways to splatter them with cum.And, as long as I’m being honest, I am as interested in them as anyone else.The truth is, they turn me on. They did right from the start. The bigger they grew, the sexier they made me feel, and I was not shy about showing them off. Even as I had to give up doing things I loved, I was proud of what my mother called my “womanly figure.” I wasn’t one of those girls who slumped forward to conceal them, or tried to hide them under baggy clothes. I took to wearing tight knits and close-buttoned blouses, and plunge bras that served up my chest like a big bowl of delicious fruit. I was incredibly vain about them. As I joggled and jounced along the city streets, I would sneak sidelong looks at myself in the store windows, and I liked what I saw. I’m ashamed to admit it, now, but I would even check out other women, sizing them up as I went along, thinking, “I’m bigger than her…and her…and her.”It sounds absurd, I know, and I would have died of embarrassment if anyone had known what I was thinking.