I have perfect breasts. The kind that not just men, but women love and want too. No, I am not even exaggerating. They are full, with an envious cleavage, giving me the perfectly sharp curves poets write of, and actresses flaunt.
And yet, there hasn’t been a single day in the past eight years when I didn’t wish for them to be gone!
I wish I was flat chested, instead. I wish I could somehow magically transfer some boob fat to my friends who cry about lack of “assets”. I have even considered going under the knife, later in my life when I have the money to do so.
Am I crazy? No. I am just tired of the improper attention I receive. All. The. Time. I am tired of finding clothes that are “appropriately fitted” and hating them. I am tired of wearing all things ill-fitted only so that I’m not flaunting what’s under, and so that my breasts wouldn’t stand out.
And that’s not it. I can’t run. No, not because I can’t, but because if I try to it becomes a spectacle, what with them flouncing back and forth. So, I don’t jog - which is the only form of exercise I love, BTW.
And then, there are the backaches. So, yes, if you are well endowed, your shoulders and back burden the duty of keeping your babies perky - and more often than not, they give in to the burden and cry out in pain. And no, there is no bra out there that can support them well enough. Actually, it’s quite weird how bras these days seems to exist more for the purpose of decoration, than for providing actual support.
On a more serious note though, my heart cries when I go to stores and fall in love with cute lacy bras and am told that the company doesn’t even make them in size D upwards. And then, I am directed to this dull section that exists only to cage my boobs and make them look like an unattractive, immovable uni-boob. And what’s with bralettes replacing bras, and why aren’t they designed for a busty women too? They are cute. I want them too. It’s unfair.
But you know what I hate the most? I hate how my family, my friends, and the rude stares of the society, all ask me to wear layers, use scarves, keep my hair long, stay away from deep necks and just about give up wearing tight fitted tops and dresses.
It’s almost like because I have a bigger bust, I have to try harder to act and dress boob-less, while other girls can go about wearing whatever they like, because, hey, it’s not like they are flaunting anything.
Doesn’t it reek of repression to you? For I sure do feel repressed when I am asked to cover up only so that I may not “invite” or “provoke” rude stares, however uncomfortable it may be for me. At least that is what I feel like all the time, and will feel like for as long as I live, and that’s just scary.