I have small breasts and I cannot lie…I’m fine with it. While I wouldn’t mind rocking a small, gravity-defying bottom like Kate Hudson, or sporting sleek, toned arms like Michelle Obama, I like my itty-bitty boobs.
Last week my friend celebrated her birthday by treating three of her friends to a spa day. During my first (and last) body scrub, the woman rubbing sea salt on my arms, legs, and back, like she was brining a Thanksgiving turkey, asked if I had ever considered getting implants. From what I could tell, she and I were the same teacup size and she had no filter when working with clients.
No, I like my tiny tater tots,” I answered. “Why?”
“Sometimes when I’m out with my boyfriend and he sees a big-chested woman my age,” she said, ”I wish I was bigger.”
“How old are you?” I asked as I realized a sticky note would have provided better coverage than the thin paper thong she gave me to protect my lady regions from rogue bits of salt.
“I’m 23…the same age my mom was when she had surgery to go from my size, a AA, to a small C. But I don’t think it’s worth the money.”
“I wouldn’t care if it was free,” I told her. “I’d still say no to surgery.”
I don’t remember much from when I was in my early 20’s—I blame Peppermint Schnapps—but what I do know is that although I had been dealt puny playing cards, I never considered gambling with my health and seeking elective surgery. My fear of needles, blood, and extreme pain, along with the realization there was nothing natural about literally putting on a false front (or two), confirmed my decision.
The fact that my new bosom buddy was contemplating implants didn’t bother me—I don’t begrudge and would never judge anyone for wanting to increase her bust size. And if her ultimate goal was to make her clothes fit better or if she simply wanted to do something for herself, just because, I’d encourage her to find a reputable doctor. Instead, I had an issue with the reason she was considering surgery: to keep her boyfriend from honing in on other women’s hooters. When I was her age, the guys I dated never teased me about my barely-there breasts and pancake patties. One or more often said, “More than a mouthful is too much,” which I appreciated, yet already believed. But if someone had reservations about dating me because I couldn’t fill out a C-cup, the conversation would have ended with him needing to wear an iron cup.
While having massive mammaries has never made my wish list, topped my to-do list or ranked anywhere on my bucket list, I’ll admit there were two times I enjoyed having fun bags: when I was breastfeeding by sons. My mini-jugs (they were more like school-size cartons of milk) were round and perky, yet leaky at all the wrong times (my apologies to my dentist for forgetting to wear nursing pads while getting a filling). I could no doubt recreate the same effect by investing in bras with more padding or stuffing an entire box of tissues in my mini-cup holders, but my sweater kittens fit inside my clothes just fine, thank you. I didn’t have a desire to stuff my bra when I was younger; why would I start now?
I’m not sure if by the end of our 45-minute session, I had convinced the woman to look past her small boobs (no pun intended) and focus on her other assets. Yet maybe one day she’ll reach the point where I am now…past the age of caring what anyone thinks of me, especially about whether or not I can fill out a t-shirt.
This post was originally published on BLUNTmoms