I always thought I would get a boob job. It seemed justifiable with my small excuses for breasts when I was in my teens and 20’s. Strangely, thinking I was going to fix them helped me accept them: one day these puppies will be bigger.
Once I even tried hypnotherapy and bought breast augmentation CDs from a British quack who promised I could think my way into bigger boobs in 12 weeks. After eight weeks of dedicated listening, every day, there was no change so I contacted the online help desk and they told me to relax more, not want it so badly yet still believe it would happen. It was brilliant advice because it left me not relaxed, very wanting and confused: was a D Cup too greedy? Was a B too doubtful? Of course it didn’t work but I couldn’t blame the hypnotherapy because I didn’t believe.
So far the only time my breasts sprinted out of an A Cup was when I had children. They looked marvellous but they were so leaky and drippy — nobody mentions this bit about breastfeeding, swinging around a pole would be lethal — and I had to hide them behind maternity pads thick enough to take a bullet. And then there was the after math, the exhaling of the magnificent mounds. As one girlfriend said to me recently, “We don’t have tits anymore, we have envelopes!”
If ever I had the perfect excuse to finally do IT, it’s now. I have even discussed it with fellow A Cup buddies and we all agree it’s OK. For us. We want our chest measurements to be larger than our waists, that’s all.
Recently in a pokey changing room, my daughter watched me put on a blue bra that was so padded it stood up by itself.
“Why do you put those blue boobies on Mummy?” she asked. “Do they keep your buttons in place?”
I looked at her bright five-year-old face, reassured her they did in fact keep my buttons in place — and upward facing like all good buttons — and knew, in that instant, I could never get a boob job because she watches everything. And there is no explanation that is OK for her.
I’m sick of losing the keys so I got this handy cleavage to store them in.
I can’t trust the air bags in the car so I got a couple installed. Just in case.
Erm, I never felt like a real woman with small boobs?
Because she would look at me and say “but you are a woman Mummy.” And I would probably cry like a real woman and she would not understand why. And then she would know that it was OK to hate parts of the body. She will figure this out in high school I’m sure but I don’t want her to learn that from me. I cannot teach her to accept her body if I have not accepted mine.
As Oscar Wilde said once: ‘Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.’
I will be explaining to both my son and daughter that breasts — like those unattractive things called penises — are not magical for how they LOOK but what they DO. They create life and they grow children.
I cannot tell them breasts work in all shapes and sizes unless I am my true size.
The boob job is off the list. I’m still not sure how to explain to my daughter why my bra is as thick as a slipper or occasionally a couple of sticky chicken breasts find their way in there, but for now the buttons will do.
For any fellow breast worriers (warriors!) out there then please visit this site. There are hundreds of photos of normal breasts: big, small, up, down, in, out and everything in between. No matter what size or shape you will find some like yours. WARNING: chaps this is not a pervy site, if you have looked at porn for too long then this will be a good reality check for you.
A and OK.
Angela writes for New Zealand publications and online. In 2013 her story ‘Over 500’ was runner up in the highly-regarded Sunday Star Short Story Awards. She is the founder of FABIK (warning: contains the f word). She also keeps a blog which contains more of the f word: www.angelabarnett.me.