A Brief History Of My Tits…

I remember the first time I became aware of my breasts. I was on the top bunk under the covers reading Judy Blume’s Blubber by flashlight at summer camp when I noticed marbles under my nipples that hurt.

I agonized for the two weeks leading up to Parents Weekend, convinced that I had breast cancer and wondering if my boyfriend Casey would come to the funeral.

Mom hadn’t shut the door on the 1969 Toyota Corona before I was wrapped around her waist wetting her tee with tears. When I was finally able to speak I broke the terrible news to mom. She took me to the outhouse (it was that kind of camp) took a peek at my swollen “nips” and after a hearty laugh assured me that I’d probably live.

I remember the first time a boy said “I can see your boobies” and having my bra strap snapped on the playground.

I remember friends of Mom’s, men and women, looking at my chest and saying things like, “My how you’ve grown.”

I remember the transwoman at the specialty bra shop who gently eased my shame and helped me shoe horn my huge 12 year old “tatas” into the “right” DD bra/torture tool for me. Talk about hideous (it was 1982 and years before Victorias Secret hit the mammilla scene) but it did the trick.

I remember wearing oversized sweatshirts and hunching my shoulders in order to escape the lecherous leering of grown men when I walked down the street. I continue to have shitty posture and a bad back.

I remember feeling grossly fat and having a hard time finding tops that fit at Fashion Gal.

I remember being embarrassed by my “guns” and wishing I could actually use them to mow down the dicks who catcalled me.

I remember the first time I let a guy jiggle with my “jugs” and liking it. Then being horrified when he shared the experience with every other boy in our grade.

I remember being called DPJ (Dolly Parton Junior) by my friends.

They weren’t being mean they were sympathizing.

I remember at 15 thinking if I just lost enough weight maybe my “melons” would shrink too. I longed to wear sundresses without visible shoulder digging straps.

I remember deciding not to eat anymore and running miles daily. I remember being hospitalized for anorexia. I’ll save that bit for another blog.

I remember the time I was hiding my “cha chas” from my boyfriend with a bed sheet because I didn’t want him to see my stretch marks.

I remember him saying “Why are you embarrassed, they just prove that all of this gorgeousness is real.” I married him.

I remember watching my “maracas” swell to a 38 E during pregnancy and how after my milk came in my husband held a rugby ball up to the “twins” and was amazed that they were just as big (and hard).

I remember trying to find a workable position to breastfeed my babies with my giant firm “knockers” and tiny stretched flat nipples.

I remember giving up and turning to the bottle (baby, not vodka bottle). I spent years feeling guilty. When they grew up healthy and strong I got over it.

I remember not wanting to make love, walk across the room nude, or be on top without a shirt on.

I remember taking a bath with my 5 and 3 year old daughters and having the oldest ask, “Mommy why are your boobs so long?” and the younger piping up, “And so flat?”

I remember being in the plastic surgeon’s office and looking down to see how he’d folded my “cans” in half and saying “something like this?” and the mortification when I saw the inch long black hair growing out of my nipple.

I remember waking up from my “udder” reduction and thinking thank God and then the panic I felt when I first saw them unwrapped because they hadn’t made them small enough.

I remember the regret I felt when I went to pick up my children and couldn’t because of the pain. I kept thinking what have I done and how had I’d allowed my vanity to supersede my feminism, income and integrity.

I remember when the bruising and swelling went down and thinking it was all totally worth it. I started to wear sundresses, get on top and walk around the house naked.

I felt like finally I was more than my breasts. I felt like me.

I hate that we live in a world where a girl’s budding breasts turn her into a thing to be objectified. That girls are sexualized and preyed upon by men who see “tits” as toys.

I love that I no longer have to tuck my tee under my breasts and can run without binding them.

I have no regrets. Feel free to judge….

Article by Anna Quick-Palmer