I remember having a flat chest before puberty and wanting so desperately to mature so that my breasts would grow like the pictures shown in those books parents give to their children on developing. That seemed to be the only exciting part of the whole shindig and the part that other preteen girls liked to compare and boast about.
Well, folks, I can say that puberty is over and done with and my flat chest is here to stay.
Twelve years old and I had nothing to brag about. All of my friends matured and went bra-shopping together, while I stuck to camisoles with no built-in support. The camisole acted as an undershirt for changing in the gym locker room at school, nothing more.
At age thirteen I was tired of being left behind. I asked my mom for a bra, and a few days later she came home with a couple bras she had purchased at Walmart. Picture the smallest training bra you can find. That was it. White with little blue and purple stars. And I was the proud new owner. There was absolutely no physical reason for me to start wearing a bra. Even in two more years I still would not need one, but I wore it anyway. In my imagination, the bra gave me what I lacked, when in reality it only puffed out my shirt an extra centimeter if that. Staring into the middle-school bathroom mirror, I wondered if anyone would notice that my breasts looked bigger and call me out on being a fake.
Even now, at age nineteen, I could get away with not wearing a bra. A size 34A, I bought 34B bras before heading off to college, trying to convince my body that I was actually that size. My body has not gotten the memo.
On any multiple-choice test, if I don’t know the answer, I choose B. Not C like everyone says to pick. Why? Because it’s the bra size I wish I were. And I can silently laugh to myself in a noiseless test room about making a joke only I’m aware of.
I apologize to any guy who interacts with my chest. Not much for him to clasp, grip, or hold in his hand. I know you say it’s enough, but I cannot help feeling like I should be bigger for you. Instead, a small handful is all you get.
Fuck it. Chest sizes are a weird thing. Women dwell on their size from a young age, and there are few who ever seem content with the final outcome, always wishing for smaller breasts, bigger breasts, ones that face in instead of out. We create problems about our bodies when there are none. Stop apologizing, stop worrying. If you feel confident in your skin, it will show and your beauty will radiate.