I have no boobs or retail experience, and I just dropped off
my resumé at a Bra Fitting store. This is probably a lost cause, but it
does provide an excellent segue into the excellent story about my excellent
tits.
My Small Breasts used to be my Designated Issue. Designated Issues are large or small matters whose resolution you designate to be the cure of your existence.
For example, I used to think that my life would be considerably more manageable if I found an effective eradication of Pubic Hair that wasn’t too expensive and didn’t leave hideous red welts in awkward places around my crotch.
I had a similar attitude about getting bigger boobs. By the time I was thirteen, my Small Breasts became an immense concern of mine, accompanied with considerable dangers. The first main danger was that if you are afflicted with a tiny flat rack, your stomach could only get to be a certain size before it started to stick out further than your boobs. My fourteen-year-old mind, feared that this would be both hideous and tragic. Actually, I’m pretty sure this fear began as early as age nine. I remember taking on an unreasonable regimen of crunches and abdominal exercises and an unreasonably young age. When I turned thirteen and started lifting weights with the swim team, I refused to do the bench press, convinced that it would stunt my growth. Well, apparently there was not much growth to stunt. Despite refraining from the bench press, my boobs never expanded to fill more than a junior sized bra, available at LaSenza girl.
My Small Breasts used to be my Designated Issue. Designated Issues are large or small matters whose resolution you designate to be the cure of your existence.
For example, I used to think that my life would be considerably more manageable if I found an effective eradication of Pubic Hair that wasn’t too expensive and didn’t leave hideous red welts in awkward places around my crotch.
I had a similar attitude about getting bigger boobs. By the time I was thirteen, my Small Breasts became an immense concern of mine, accompanied with considerable dangers. The first main danger was that if you are afflicted with a tiny flat rack, your stomach could only get to be a certain size before it started to stick out further than your boobs. My fourteen-year-old mind, feared that this would be both hideous and tragic. Actually, I’m pretty sure this fear began as early as age nine. I remember taking on an unreasonable regimen of crunches and abdominal exercises and an unreasonably young age. When I turned thirteen and started lifting weights with the swim team, I refused to do the bench press, convinced that it would stunt my growth. Well, apparently there was not much growth to stunt. Despite refraining from the bench press, my boobs never expanded to fill more than a junior sized bra, available at LaSenza girl.
 |
| These are not my boobs. Mine are smaller. |
Alas. Although my abdomen never ended up protruding
beyond my tiny tits, the terror that one day it would prevailed. So too
did my terror of a second breast-related danger. This one had to do with
what I call the “bum-to-breast ratio.” According to my pubescent theory,
the size of your butt had to be intimately in harmony with the size of your
boobs. Thus, if you butt grew, then your boobs needed to grow too.
In contrast, if your boobs failed to blossom, then your butt had best remain
the same size. I think it was around my development of this theory that I
began squeezing my ass compulsively and repeatedly wherever I went. At
school, in the movie theatre, and during band practice. Figured it burned
extra calories and provided damage control for my ratio. Looking back
years later, I wouldn’t recommend this. A tight ass is hard thing to cure
and I’m not sure my ratio ever benefited much from the ass-clenching...
Still, I remained faithful to my ass-clenching and abdominal crunching for a number of years. Just shy of eighteen, and armed with Baby LaSenza padded bras, I entered first-year university in Montréal. I’d barely had a boyfriend since kindergarten, and I felt certain that my tits were the reason. One day, at a residence party, in a moment of uncharacteristic oversharing, I bemoaned my sad fate to the girl beside me. She was relatively well-endowed, with an excellent bum-to-breast ratio.
“Oh don’t worry,” she reassured me. “My boobs used to be small too. I just went up two cup sizes.”
I looked at her dubiously. “What’s your secret?” I asked.
Generously, she revealed it. Five cups of 2% milk. Every day. More than a bag of that shit.
Well folks, I went for it, trudging to the grocery store every two and half days to buy four litre bags of the fatty white liquid. I guzzled a hefty glass at every meal and snack. All the liquid was terrible for my weird rumination syndrome eating disorder, which involved stomach contents travelling up and down my esophagus for up to an hour after I ate. Still, I rarely fully expelled anything, and so I figured all of the two-percent goodness was making it into my boobs.
A couple months later, it still wasn’t time to throw away my Baby LaSenza Bras. All my ratios were the same size, but for some reason, I was so tired, I could hardly function. Although I mostly slept a solid eight hours at night, I would regularly fall asleep in the afternoon, wake two hours later and wonder what happened. I was less active than I’d been in my whole life, and ten times more tired.
I went to the doctor who ordered a blood test. She called me back, surprised I was able to pick up the phone. Minimum iron levels for women are supposedly 12.0. 14.0 is better. My hemoglobin was at 6. I was severely anemic. The doctor suggested I go to a dietician. I showed the dietician what I was eating.
“Why so much dairy?” she asked.
“To make my boobs grow,” I replied with great conviction.
I guess that the calcium in dairy can bind with something or other and prevent your body from absorbing iron. And the only way I could get my boobs to grow would be to a considerable amount of weight everywhere, which would put all my ratios at risk.
I was left with no option but to un-designate the issue. I surrendered. My boobs were my boobs.
For a couple more years, I continued to wear my padded Baby LaSenza Bras, and by my some miracle, I ended up with my first boyfriend. He called my boobs “very nice” thoroughly agreeing with his grandfather who had always claimed that what mattered was shape, and not size. God bless grandfathers. Plus he said that it was unlikely that my boobs would ever sag. I would defy gravity forever.
Essentially, my tits were eternal.
I was twenty when I left my last padded Baby LaSenza Bra at the apartment of a man named Charlie. (Don’t worry, mom, I would never ever have sex with a stranger.) But the bra was removed and Charlie had the chance to say, “You have beautiful breasts.”
Still, I remained faithful to my ass-clenching and abdominal crunching for a number of years. Just shy of eighteen, and armed with Baby LaSenza padded bras, I entered first-year university in Montréal. I’d barely had a boyfriend since kindergarten, and I felt certain that my tits were the reason. One day, at a residence party, in a moment of uncharacteristic oversharing, I bemoaned my sad fate to the girl beside me. She was relatively well-endowed, with an excellent bum-to-breast ratio.
“Oh don’t worry,” she reassured me. “My boobs used to be small too. I just went up two cup sizes.”
I looked at her dubiously. “What’s your secret?” I asked.
Generously, she revealed it. Five cups of 2% milk. Every day. More than a bag of that shit.
Well folks, I went for it, trudging to the grocery store every two and half days to buy four litre bags of the fatty white liquid. I guzzled a hefty glass at every meal and snack. All the liquid was terrible for my weird rumination syndrome eating disorder, which involved stomach contents travelling up and down my esophagus for up to an hour after I ate. Still, I rarely fully expelled anything, and so I figured all of the two-percent goodness was making it into my boobs.
A couple months later, it still wasn’t time to throw away my Baby LaSenza Bras. All my ratios were the same size, but for some reason, I was so tired, I could hardly function. Although I mostly slept a solid eight hours at night, I would regularly fall asleep in the afternoon, wake two hours later and wonder what happened. I was less active than I’d been in my whole life, and ten times more tired.
I went to the doctor who ordered a blood test. She called me back, surprised I was able to pick up the phone. Minimum iron levels for women are supposedly 12.0. 14.0 is better. My hemoglobin was at 6. I was severely anemic. The doctor suggested I go to a dietician. I showed the dietician what I was eating.
“Why so much dairy?” she asked.
“To make my boobs grow,” I replied with great conviction.
I guess that the calcium in dairy can bind with something or other and prevent your body from absorbing iron. And the only way I could get my boobs to grow would be to a considerable amount of weight everywhere, which would put all my ratios at risk.
I was left with no option but to un-designate the issue. I surrendered. My boobs were my boobs.
For a couple more years, I continued to wear my padded Baby LaSenza Bras, and by my some miracle, I ended up with my first boyfriend. He called my boobs “very nice” thoroughly agreeing with his grandfather who had always claimed that what mattered was shape, and not size. God bless grandfathers. Plus he said that it was unlikely that my boobs would ever sag. I would defy gravity forever.
Essentially, my tits were eternal.
I was twenty when I left my last padded Baby LaSenza Bra at the apartment of a man named Charlie. (Don’t worry, mom, I would never ever have sex with a stranger.) But the bra was removed and Charlie had the chance to say, “You have beautiful breasts.”
 |
| 34 F. Not for me. |
The bra I'd worn that night had cost 50 bucks. It had
“hydralife insertions,” and was a slightly paler shade of turquoise than the
margueritas I’d consumed that evening at the party where Charlie and I were
acquainted.
I escaped Charlie's apartment the next morning without saying good-bye, and without the bra. I never went back for it. I didn’t need it anymore. Apparently all you need is a handful.
The End.
I escaped Charlie's apartment the next morning without saying good-bye, and without the bra. I never went back for it. I didn’t need it anymore. Apparently all you need is a handful.
The End.
 |
Perhaps now my Designated Issue is my pelvis: Twitter @mypelvicfloor!
And that I want one million people to buy my book. Peanut Butter, Pubic Hair Keira Knightley's High Vagina What the fuck should I do with my life, Part Two |
