That got your attention.
Women and their boobs. I could write a book about mine.
I developed early, around age 12. I hit the local Sears with my Mom, for the very same bras that I'd been coveting in the tattered Sears Catalog.
After reading Are you There God? It's me, Margaret?, I was crazy excited to start showing. Finally, there'd be physical proof that I was grown up, mature, and absolutely amazing. We left Sears with some tasteful white cotton numbers, and I was one proud little lady.
Then I had a total 180. As soon as my tits started showing up in the world, shame followed.
Classmates were eager to snap my back bra-strap or attempt an illicit purple-nurple. It was pretty humiliating. I started carrying my books in front of my chest for protection. Early on, it was clear that my genetic gifts were coming from the huge-breasted women on my paternal side. When I started dating, I'd wonder if guys were interested in me or my ta-tas. And my breasts were always in the way. Forget running or jogging. Forget cute little T-shirts and spaghetti-strap dresses. I was continually trying to stuff those suckers into something too small or camouflage their enormity with tent-like tops. Looking at popular culture ... magazines, movies, TV shows ... reinforced that my chest endowments were all wrong.
I started hating my boobs. These beautiful intricate things designed to feed babies and bring pleasure. Hated them.
So from then on, bra shopping sucked. I'd go to the Macy's lingerie department, grab the biggest-cupped matronly contraptions way in the back and try to make it work. It never really did. I also tried Victoria's Secret when the first store opened near me. A total joke. They sold nothing even close to my size.
Flash forward to Christmas about 10 years ago, my husband hands me an envelope. It's a $200 gift certificate to a local lingerie shop. "For some good bras," he says. My initial reaction was "Oh shit. I can't." I said thank you and put it a drawer. I sat with it for awhile. Then I realized it was time. I'd spent years healing all kinds of things inside. And now, it was time to heal my relationship with my boobs.
Gift in hand, I walked into Personally Yours, and I was greeted by Suzi. I expected the shame that first gripped me at age 12 to take over. But it didn't. Suzi was totally professional, warm and compassionate. She told me that my cup-size wasn't a D, DD or DDD, which is all they have at stores like Macy's. I'm a G. Let me tell you, I was shocked to hear that cup-sizes went further into the alphabet. We went to a dressing room, and she started handing me bras. Beautiful, delicate, strong, colorful bras. I looked at my image in the mirror and loved what I saw. The healing had begun.
Since then, I've gone back regularly to Personally Yours. It's become part of taking care of my big beautiful ta-tas.
Need some help healing your own relationship with your tits? Start with laughter and Bette Midler's bit about her own tits.