I developed really early; I got my boobs when I was nine, way before I was ready to deal with all things breast-related. I spent the rest of my life hiding them, and today they finally had their coming-out party.
It began innocently enough. I was getting dressed for work, running a little bit late as usual. I rummaged through my closet, not feeling particularly inspired. I felt like wearing jeans but wanted to wear something dressy on top. I found a DKNY two-piece stunner which I hadn't had a chance to wear yet: a chocolate v-neck empire-cut silk chiffon top with shimmery floral applique insets of velvet, lurex gold thread, and clusters of tiny beads criss-crossed under the bottom of the neckline and across underneath the bust area, flutter chiffon cap sleeves, and a matching silk camisole underneath.
With a few minutes to go before I had to be on the road, I slipped on the top, pulled up my jeans, and stepped into metallic bronze leather round-toed slippers. When I looked up, my eyes fell out of their sockets. The reflection staring back at me in the mirror was all boobs -- my top was cut lower than I'd remembered, and since it was fitted through the underbust (which served to "lift me up," so to speak), you just couldn't ignore the décolletage, peeples.
But no matter, I thought. I lifted the silk camisole underneath further up so it was peeking above the sheer top (even if it was meant to remain hidden), to function as a modesty panel of sorts. And off I ran.
As soon as I stepped into the building, I discovered I had lost my face in the process of getting dressed this morning. No one looked at me at eye-level, it was like my head was chopped off above my shoulders (make that my chest, even).
At my workplace is a triumvirate of the most boobilicious babes I have ever encountered in the corporate jungle: Aylin, barely five feet and a 32DD; Samantha, a Renee Zellweger doppelgänger but with Tyra Banks proportions; and Andrea, who paid a hefty sum for her equally hefty barely D cups right before her wedding earlier this year. Our boss once intimated she didn't mind their cleavages exposed because "(they) have to enjoy them while they can."
Today the girls informally inducted me into their tribe. I came out, they took me in.
"I don't get it," I told Aylin, "Why are my boobs causing such a commotion when you guys have long since desensitized the entire office to the sight of cleavage?"
"Because you NEVER show them, " Aylin shot back. "No one knew you had them. And your chest is so white it just blinds everyone who looks at it!"
"Yeah," chirped in Sarah, the resident Goth, whose porcelain skin has never met the sun. "They're white even to me."
Later, our CFO came to speak with me about a group of folks we're relocating to California. I clasped both hands right in front of my chest with my chin resting on my knuckles while I gave him my suggestions, as if to appear thoughtful (or cold) but in reality was meant for subterfuge. When he walked away, Aylin laughed. "Do you know that you showed him even more cleavage doing that?" she mocked me. "When you hold your arms together that way, you push your boobs in and up even more." I then decided to remain inside the office for the rest of the day, especially after crossing paths with Miguel on my way to the vending machines.
"Whoa!" he exclaimed, quickly backtracking his steps so he was now standing right in front of me. "What are those?"
"They're boobs, get over it," I said. "All women have them."
"Yeah, but you didn't have them before, " he said. "Where and why have you been hiding them all this time? If I were you, I'd be showing them off." I glared at him, cheeks hot and flushed bright red by now, and retreated back to my cave.
Aylin later yanked me out to grab lunch with her across the street. Normally when we're off together, men don't see me because they're too busy staring at her chest. Today, they still weren't looking at me, only now because their eyes were fixed at the top of her head -- but not at it, right next to it, where my chest lay exposed.
"Is it always like this?" I whispered, "Omigod, even the guy at Rubio's was talking to my boobs the whole time he was taking my order."
"Oh sure, Sam and I are so used to it," she replied, amused by my frisson of surprise and shock. "Even Andrea's gotten used to it by now."
I don't think I ever will, I wanted to say. I've been undercover for almost my entire life and I'm not ready to be exposed, my cover blown so to speak. Today was like having multiple personalities -- one for me and one for my boobs. Frankly, I find it difficult enough dealing with the day-to-day of having one life, I don't think I have the energy for living yet another. I've never thought of my breasts as a separate entity apart from myself -- they're not my "twins," I don't even have names for either of them. They're not even that big, really.
I mean, of course I love them; they're a part of me, of my body. I celebrate them because they symbolize my womanhood -- at least an outward, obvious, manifestation of it. Heck, I even worry about them constantly because breast cancer runs in the family. But I realized today that if I chose to expose abundant cleavage, I'd have to work extra hard to overcome the stereotypes of being a busty woman in today's society, especially in the workplace. And since I work quite hard as it is, I'd have to be a sadomasochist to want to add more challenges to my day.
As a feminist, I think it's unfair that no one questions the brain capacity of men who happen to pack on a large natural codpiece: men like these are envied, not underestimated. But not so for women blessed with bountiful breasts -- it's as if their brains have been split in half and tucked underneath each cup like a push-up gel pad, as far as most people are concerned (even by other women -- why is it we're so cruel to each other, by the way?). This is somewhat ironic, considering men lose blood from their brain to their penises but women lose none to their boobs.
My co-worker Tammy told me later today she recently had a breast reduction. She's a tiny wisp of a woman, petite and small-boned. But before her surgery she was a DD, and even larger after she had a child (now she's more of a small C). She said part of the reason she did it was she couldn't stand the unwanted attention she got daily: the lasvicious looks from men and naked hostility from other women. She explained that no matter what she wore (if she could find tops that could fit her properly, that is), she always exposed cleavage -- a lot of it. She said that now she feels that people really see HER, who she is rather than what she has.
Today brought me back to one night during my mid college years. I was having a heated discussion with my then-boyfriend inside his car after he dropped me home; all of a sudden, he put his hand behind the back of my head and slowly pulled me close to him. And just before he was about to kiss me, his mouth parted and eyes slowly closing, he whispered, "I just love your brain, it's sooo sexy."
"But what about my body, Wally?" I protested. "What about my body?"
Oh what a boob I was then. Although I'm not one to deny who I am for the benefit of other people, I now know I'm not cut out for sticking out. It's the reason I don't wear red, after all. I'm just not meant for the glare of the spotlights, or to beam bright, blinding headlights either. But I now also have realized -- to my surprise, even delight -- that if I want to, I can. I've just got to learn how to perfect my light metering system, to balance out the illumination from my brain with the dazzle from -- well, a bit further down -- and make sure I'm neither overexposed nor underexposed, but seen simply the way I really am.
I developed really early. But now it seems I'm still developing into the person I wish to be, and all in good time.
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