SPEAK
Busting out
How one woman came to terms with her breasts by Carrie Hillard
They started appearing out of nowhere, two small hills of womanhood. I remember thinking, "This isn't so bad." But they didn't stop there. They kept growing and growing until my breasts became two C-cup mountains on my chest.
While other 10- and 12-year-old girls were running around braless and carefree,the thought of breasts far from their minds, the mere thought of running brought images of heaping mounds bouncing carelessly against my chest. I was positive my friends would notice. I even started to worry that any sudden movement would cause one of my breasts to fly out of my bra.
I was unprepared for dealing with the size of my bust because my mother was not large-chested. I do remember visiting my grandmother, who would gently press my head to her breasts when we hugged, as if to protect me from the cruel world. They were like two soft pillows providing comfort and love. My parents never forget to remind me to
"Thank Grandma" for my assets. Boobs must skip a generation.
One reason I noticed my breasts more was because of the attention they received from hormonal boys. The boys started having an exceedingly hard time looking at my face when I was talking; their eyes would dart downward as if my breasts were putting on a show. My naive self just thought they were being shy. The girls usually weren't harsh, though a few thought it was funny to snap my bra straps. I prayed for the day they wore real bras and I could get them back.
The drifting of the boys' eyes and the snapping of the bra straps did not bother me as much as the nicknames and jokes. The boys didn't seem to realize, or care, how much it embarrassed me. The nickname I remember the most came from a boy I barely knew who gave my breasts the nickname EEK. Much later I learned this acronym meant "Enormously Enlarged Knockers." Eventually survival instincts kicked in and I learned to ignore or play down the jabs.
I was not used to the attention my chest was bringing, nor did I care for it. My breasts started getting compared to everything from innocent fruits to guns to flotation devices. I can't count how many times I was told how huge my jugs, headlights, hooters, ta-tas or knockers were. Even my family could not refrain from chiming in. My freshman year of high school, when I was stressed about finding a job, my dad jokingly told me I could probably get one at Hooters if I really wanted to make some money, though mom quickly shot that idea down. These hills on my chest were becoming a huge burden, and it didn't take long for me to become extremely self-conscious about them.
I didn't date a lot in high school because I was afraid guys only wanted to date my chest. I thought no one could possibly want to date me because of my personality or sense of humor. I started concealing my breasts with large sweatshirts, Jackets and layered clothing. I even remember trying to wear some
of my dad's shirts, pretending it was for warmth and keeping my true reasons to myself. I never considered wearing something that accentuated my breasts. This soon changed, however, as more girls my age developed breasts, some even bigger than mine.
Because I had developed so early, it took me a while to understand why some girls wanted to show off their new assets. I still don't understand the desire of women like Pamela Anderson to stick foreign objects into their bodies to achieve a larger breast size.
It took me a while to get over my childhood breast-trauma. Once I did, I learned to be happy with what God gave me. Over time, I learned to avoid the men who stared at my chest rather than my eyes. I can now smile and say thank you when I'm complimented on my cleavage. I'm no longer self-conscious of my breasts; they are a part of me. They're now my favorite asset, and without them I wouldn't be the person I am today. Thanks, Grandma.
03. 02.2006 JAYPLAY 14
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