“So, how big are your boobs?”
“Excuse me?” I responded, consciously crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Like, what’s your cup size?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I was backstage during a rehearsal for the spring musical, waiting for my entrance. Whispering to others backstage wasn’t uncommon — we normally gossiped about others or just talked about classes. But this was out of the blue.
“Um, I don’t know. A C cup, I guess?” I lied, hoping the interrogator would leave me alone.
“What? No, they can’t be! I’m a B cup, there’s no way you’re a C!” the interrogator laughed, seeing through my lie. She her friend over and said, “Do you think she has a C cup?”
He responded, “No way! They’re huge!”
I was embarrassed by this point. She not only saw through my lie but saw that it was necessary to show me how transparent it was. Thank goodness my entrance was up. I left them, walking onstage to do a comedy bit about ice water and vodka. I wasn’t fully present when I entered, though. Their words sat in the back of my mind for the rest of rehearsal. I was mad that she asked about my boob size out of the blue like that.
To a young girl, boobs are everything.
They’re a sign of becoming a woman. It’s physical proof that you are growing up. I remember being around eight and skimming the pages of The Care and Keeping of YOU and seeing the development of breasts. I never once thought that big boobs would be a bad thing. American Girl said they weren’t. My mother said they weren’t.
I constantly felt shame about my breast size.
I still remember the moment in eighth grade, when I was sitting down at a table in the library with a couple of students, and one of them said to me, “You shouldn’t really run, you know. Your boobs just bounce up and down like basketballs.”
I stopped running.
In high school, there was a boy who felt that because we were pretty good friends, he was allowed to talk about my breasts, and constantly asking to touch them. I constantly said no, but he never stopped asking.
I stopped being friends with him.
I bought minimizer bras, but they didn’t hold up my girls as well as my other bras. I started to wear sports bras every day but stopped because they were tight and restricting. It felt like people were defining me by my boobs, not by my intelligence or my talent, but by how far down the alphabet my cup size reaches. (It’s not even that far!)
I am more than my boobs. I have beautiful eyes, amazing hair, adult acne, a potbelly, a great singing voice, killer thighs, adorable freckles, and bloody cuticles. Why won’t you see the whole picture of me? I am also more than any of these physical attributes.
Why do you choose to see one D cup sized thing and claim it to be perfect? I am not perfect. Nobody is perfect.
I’m not going to shut up and bind my boobs to please you. I’m not going to wear a sports bra every damn day to avoid scrutiny. What gives you permission to talk about my boobs? I don’t talk about your body. I don’t try to guess your pants size or ask to touch your butt. You have to accept me, bloody cuticles and all. My boobs are not for you. I made them myself, after all.