Chesticles

I get it, I get it. The grass is always greener on the other side. If you have straight hair, you wish it were curly. You can't always get what you want and all that other stupid jazz. But I really have to say to you flatter chested beings out there... Count your lucky A, B, and-C-cupped stars.

When being measured by a Victoria's Secret booby expert last week, she marveled at me. "Well, we don't carry your size, but we can special order it and have it shipped in. It costs about $80 and it'll be here in six weeks." I about died. What size was I? 36 DDD. Eighty bucks it would cost, and six weeks of waiting, just to have a necessary piece of undergarment to hold my body in place and attempt to reduce back pain, shoulder pain, and black eyes from just walking up the stairs. I just got one on clearance that did the job and called it good.

You men have no idea.

Don't even get me started on sports bras. I would love to be a runner, but every time I go from my brisk-paced walking into a tiny little jog, I'm reminded with every bounce why I probably will never run a marathon.

I wore my first training bra in 3rd grade and was a C cup by the time I started junior high. My friends did the "we must increase our bust" exercises and formed the Itty-Bitty-Titty Committee, while I stood over in the land of ex-jump roper.

Oh, and I got called "slut" and rumors claimed I had lost my virginity before I had ever held a boy's hand. I remember a girl in 6th grade named Allie who teased me all the time when I was in 5th grade. "Stuffer!" That's what she called me every recess, and she'd stand there with her posse, all wearing black t-shirts and Silver jeans, and grab at my chest, and say, "Quit stuffing your bra, stuffer."

6th grade was heavenly, because she was gone, but then 7th grade rolled around and there she was, at every hallway... "Stuffer!" Which made no sense, because she had a chest herself. Finally one day when I was feeling bold, at her first cry of "stuffer" I pulled her into the girls bathroom and flashed her. She was always nice to me after that.

But that's when I started being mean to me. Without this issue, I'd probably look two sizes smaller. I know I'd lose 12 pounds instantly. I certainly wouldn't have to special order any underwear, just go inside, pull something off the rack, and know it'd be perfect. I'd be able to wear vests, bikinis, high-buttoned lacy shirts, and I'd be a jogger. I could fold my arms, bowl, and hit baseballs.

And nursing certainly hasn't helped matters. Nor has weaning, which Finley is slowly doing on her own. I'll never have that waif look, I'll always be "curvy." "Voluptuous." "Boobies on board." Maybe someday when I can afford to do so, I'll have the excess cut away--reduction--and love it. They grow back, you know. Like worms. Breast reduction patients always have to have their surgeries re-done. But how fun to know just for a few months how heavenly it would be to have this weight lifted off my chest, literally.

I thought I had come to terms with this issue the first time my body changed. How come postpartum is so similar to a second puberty, and how come no one tells you this will happen?