Here’s the thing about big boobs: they’re not just boobs. They’re a full-time job, an ongoing structural engineering project, and—depending on the day—a source of power or a complete and utter pain in the arse. I should have had some sort of induction day, a welcome seminar, perhaps a PowerPoint presentation entitled: “Congratulations on Your Massive Knockers! Here’s How They Will Rule Your Life.”
Because they do. They do rule your life. They dictate what you wear, how you sit, what kind of seatbelt arrangement you require in a moving vehicle. They dictate whether a light jog will be possible without two layers of industrial-strength lycra. They dictate whether men will be able to look you in the eye while having a conversation. (Spoiler: No.)
My own personal breast journey (which is a phrase I never thought I’d write) started young. I went from a sweet, innocent A-cup to a DD in what felt like overnight. I was still learning long division, and yet, somehow, I’d also become some sort of perverse beacon of male attention. At twelve. TWELVE. Fully grown men in their forties started looking at me like I was a “woman,” despite the fact that I was still mentally about three-quarters of a Pokémon card collector. The girls at school weren’t exactly thrilled either. There were whispers, accusations that I was “showing off.” As if I had any say in the matter. As if I wasn’t just as freaked out by them as everyone else.
Fast forward to adulthood, and it turns out that big boobs are not, in fact, the empowering, sexy, “earth-mother goddess” gift the movies make them out to be. They’re heavy. They cause back pain that makes you walk like an exhausted turtle. They make shopping a nightmare. There is no cute, affordable lingerie for people like me. I do not get to walk into a shop, pick up a $15 bra in a fetching shade of lavender, and be done with it. No, no, no. I have to fork out $70 for what is essentially an industrial hoist. Something with reinforcement panels and architecture. I could build a small suspension bridge with the same level of engineering.
And while we’re at it, can we talk about sports bras? Or rather, the concept of sports bras? A friend of mine can buy hers in the supermarket while picking up some tinned tomatoes. I, meanwhile, have to embark on a multi-step odyssey that usually ends in disappointment. You want one that actually works? That doesn’t suffocate you to death but also doesn’t allow your breasts to ricochet dangerously with every step? That’ll be $100. And it’ll be beige. Enjoy.
Now, there are upsides. They give me a waistline. They make certain dresses fit like a dream. And, in an unexpected twist, they do a wonderful job of keeping my seatbelt from sliding up and strangling me. So, you know, small mercies.
But really, big boobs are not a blessing or a curse. They’re a lifestyle. They require care, attention, financial investment, and, sometimes, a deep, meditative breath when you try to button up a shirt and realize, yet again, that your options are “looks like a tent” or “looks like I’m smuggling two honey-glazed hams.”
Would I trade them for something more manageable? Probably. Will I ever? No. These are the cards I’ve been dealt, and I will play them with as much dignity and properly reinforced underwiring as possible. And when I finally take my bra off at the end of the day, I will let out the single greatest sigh of relief known to womanhood.