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Friday, Jul 3, 2009
They may be massive, but I'm not lopping off these babies.
Dec 11, 2000 | My roommate's bra hangs quietly on the bathroom doorknob. It's a placid little thing. All lace and skinny straps, it lingers as lingerie should. Even her black brassiere is an innocent item. Its sheer fabric whispers only sweet nothings. I look at the monster I've just pulled off. The cups smile, huge and gaping. Instead of hushed secrets, my bra shouts out big words: mammaries and maternalism. Its attempts at coy femininity -- an off-pink shade, a wee bow -- are utterly unconvincing. I've seen less fabric in a sweater.
I survey my naked assets. There really is no good name for them: "titties," "boobs," "bosom," "chest," "breasts" -- all these monikers are either too clinical or too comical. Although generously sized, mine are not the fantastic pneumatic spheres possessed by comic-book heroines, but neither do they sag near my navel. Their tops slope down and the bottoms curve up from their resting place on my rib cage. Most of the middle is dominated by my nipples, which usually spread out wide and relaxed but with a mere touch of the bathwater perk up to attention. As I ease my way in, my breasts bob up, floating to the surface like bath toys. Today, I don't feel like playing. Today, I'm considering lopping them off.
Men may be taken with them, and some women may implant bigger ones, but when it comes down to it, having big boobs can be a big pain. (No, I don't mean actual physical discomfort. That, for now at least, is thankfully not an issue.)
I try on clothes and none of them button closed in the front. I borrow my friend's "cute" top and on me it turns "revealing." I wear a baggy T-shirt and my breasts take up my entire torso. I wear a fitted one and co-workers make comments.
And don't get me started on bra shopping. Judging from the selection, it seems that bra designers believe that no woman with double D's was born after 1950. They create contraptions meant to maximize one's profile by squishing tits into weird Estelle Getty-esque cones, or try to minimize cleavage with devices that push one's breasts all the way into one's armpits. Wearing a sports bra results in the uncomfortable and unflattering uniboob look -- a monolith of flesh, an Ayers Rock rising from the chest. "Full-figure" bras are the modern-day corsets: Straps stretch the width of your shoulders, snaps cover half your back and there are enough constructive devices to support a minor bridge. Sleeveless tank tops and any neckline that dares dip below your collarbone are strictly forbidden.
Of course, I have options. With the help of modern technology, I could do away with all of this. I allow myself to consider the possibilities. How nice it would be to fit into the things I like, rather than have my cup size define the things that fit me. I could put on a bra with a single snap of my wrist, or even feel comfortable not wearing one at all.
