TripleD Titties: A Guide to Reality

I have Triple-D Titties. Sounds like the cliche a phone-sex operator might say, doesn't it? This is the stuff that porn stars are made of, or aging Hollywood wives, or the nubile dreams of satyric invention, right? Maybe such a proclamation should be surrounded by the atmosphere of a self-help group, where everyone admits a big problem that brings them all together for coffee and commiserative stories. And yet, here I am. All-American, home-grown, big-breasted woman of pioneer stock. My grandmothers both had huge knockers, and so did theirs. But sometimes I look down at those monstrous mammaries of mine and wonder where I went wrong. Why didn't I inherit the genes of the swimmers in the family, the runners? Why do I practically have to take out a loan every time I get new bras? Why am I doomed to a lifetime without eye contact?

I definitely didn't ask for them. When younger, I remember focusing on slender, longer women, B or C cups. I was fascinated by lines of shoulders and back and legs, rather than watching with bated breath how top-heavy they were. 'Like them,' some part of my subconscious would proclaim. 'Like them I will be graceful, elegant, sinuous!' Boy, was I wrong. Even major surgery would have a difficult time in making me like Audrey Hepburn. That smoothness, that suppleness of form did not make her boyish, but more sudden curves would have interrupted it-- spoiled it. Of course, she wanted bigger breasts-- complained about her small bounty-- but still. I was filled with shame on the day that I overtook my mother in breast size, and I was only in 6th grade at the time.

~The Boobs That Ate Brooklyn~

When I was about 10, I heard about the "Pencil Test". The basic premise is this: Stick an ordinary-sized pencil length-wise underneath each breast, eraser facing in. (That part is very important.) If they drop to the floor, you're perky. If they stay, you need a bra. Religiously, I started pencil-testing every week, then every month. Enough pencils dropped to the floor over time that the cement looked silvery. This was another lesson in the adage "Don't believe everything you hear"; the Pencil Test is obviously wrong, because I didn't give pencils anti-gravitic properties until well into my D-cup stage. Yet, I clearly needed some sort of support/restraining device before then. I was stacked in 6th grade-- by high school it was just embarrassing.

My wardrobe soon consisted of long, loose shirts and lots of vests. Suit jackets, overshirts-- anything to hide the fact that I could have hidden a cantaloupe in there, and I would have simply looked a little bulkier. I learned ways to deflect would-be lustful glances from my classmates before they started. Of course, being the only student to debate "Heart of Darkness" with the AP English teacher didn't hurt matters. But my almost-Greek-tragedy-worthy downfall, like most American females, is a tendency toward a Cinderella complex. Hide your beauty and femininity; then reveal it in a great gracious unveiling, then watch as they're smitten, astounded, overwhelmed; then go back to your "rags and ashes" and mark who will see your beauty still. I admit it-- I had to try.

The trial was lip-synching to Madonna (no, I'm not that old-- this was supposed to be to VINTAGE 80's music!), caressing fur coats and bopping around in spike heels, mini skirt, and a halter top. I'll never forget the gasp from the audience... "She's got BOOBS!!!"

~Women's Support Group~

I always feel a sideways shadowy guilt when I look at my two-years-younger sister. It's as if, when the 'boob fairy' handed out the bounty, half of her bounty would always go to me. Like a really bad investment program, or a collectibles club, or a protection scam through fedora-wearing gangsters. Incredulous? Just look at the statistits *ahem* statistics:

* I started growing my monstrosities at the age of 11; she didn't start until 14.

* When I was a 'C', she began a quite respectable 'A'.

* Soon after, I jumped to 'D' and she went down to about half a cup.

* We stayed that way for a few years.

* She began growing again, and actually got larger than an 'A' cup-- almost a 'B'.

* Soon after, I jumped to a 'DD' and she went down to half a cup again.

* Hilarity, shame. I estimated that if I gave her half, we would both be perfect 'C's.

* (Instead, it was always the other way around.)

* She got married, got pregnant, had a kid. Amazement-- she actually got to a 'B'!

* I promptly went up to a 'DDD' and she went back to half a cup.

I'm not being the greedy older sister here-- I'd be fine with sharing! Dividing up the mass that make up DDD and (almost) A, we'd both be a fine upstanding 'C' with just a little extra for cleavage. Instead, she gets to go to the gym in a normal bra (or none at all!), wear angular clothes, and be sexy or sporty or girl-next-door just by changing her shirt. I get to look for bras in the very back and very bottom of every single display. She can wear any swimsuit off the rack-- I get to worry about breaking the straps.

~Victoria Can't Keep My Secrets~

Buying bras can be a questionable proposition of time, frustration, and regret. For years I took a thrice-yearly pilgrimage to all department stores in the area. My mother huffed and fumed about prices, looking at my chest as if the size were my fault. I admit that I intentionally annoyed her with many things, but my continued growth was not one of them! After hours of picking through the bottoms of displays (usually tangles of bras half-trailing off of hangers and clinging to each other), the results of the quest were this:

One "minimizing" bra with sharp seams, one "sports" bra that created the Uniboob Effect, and two clunky "everyday" bras with thick shoulder straps. They could be beige or white, but they ALWAYS had the little bow in the center.

I suppose I should have been more grateful-- after all, they did fit, and they provided support during the first couple months. But they were ugly. I didn't want the neutral bra out of the box with a serene-but-bland-faced woman on the front. I wanted lower cups, cartoon fabrics, COLORS! I wanted skinnier straps, less hooks on the back. I wanted satin or mesh or silk, not the same old cotton/poly mix. I wanted to feel beautiful and feminine, not feel like I had to hide every glimpse of the sturdy dependable fabric. Of course, maybe that was the point. After all, I was under 18 and accrued far too much attention for a virtuous girl in the first place...

Over 18, not-so-virtuous, living away from my parents' house, I passed by a lingerie store in the mall. Silk corsets and bodices were on display, and my sexually-enlightened and job-holding self decided to try them out. Exhilaratingly, these adjustable beauties were at eye-level, in S-XL. I chose my t-shirt size, and skipped to a dressing room. Minutes later, I stared at myself in the mirror. The ice-blue fabric matched my eyes and framed my pale skin. The golden stays brought out my freckles and tapered to my waist. "It's almost perfect," I complained to the saleslady, "except my cups runneth over!" My breasts really did spill out of the top, uncomfortable and fleshy and too big. The nipples peeked out like ironic eyes over the top of the silk.

"Sorry," preened the clerk. "We don't really carry YOUR size except for these three standards." She pointed to bras on the back wall that were-- you guessed it-- beige, with thick straps and a ribbon in the middle. "Try Lane Bryant next door." She ignored my protests that Lane Bryant carried DD cups, yes, but they started their band size at 38 and what the heck was I supposed to do as a 32... I ended up shepherded out the door, standing in front of both shops. I looked at the crack between the storefronts, and sighed. There, right there, was where my lingerie shop should have been built.

-I Am a Goddess, I'm a Bellydancer-

Like many of my American counterparts, I got into bellydance for a myriad of reasons. It's aerobic but not boring, can be a group activity but doesn't necessarily require hand-eye coordination, doesn't require a partner like the waltz or salsa, and one can wear luxurious fabrics along with what are affectionately phrased "jinglies". All these things are true, but there are other true things not often mentioned.

One of these truths forgotten among the clamorous "You can be any shape you want in bellydance, it's all goddess-y and spiritual and historical and feminine"s, is something I failed to remember from my physics days: An object in motion will have a tendency to continue in that motion. Even if the music has just stopped.

Even if the objects in motion just happen to be one's breasts still involved in a shimmy when one is frantically and fatalistically trying to move the OTHER direction.

This led to many impromptu lessons from dancers with dancers' figures. They would look with contempt, longing, or disbelief (or a combination of the three) at my monstrous mammaries that defied choreography and 'proper form'. "No, no..." they would groan. "You just move your shoulders. It's uncouth/improper/bad-for-you/lewd to move your breasts."

I TRIED, I really did. I tried twitching my shoulders up, or at half-speed. I tried keeping my rib cage stiff and still and only moving my shoulders partway. I tried breathing differently, thinking differently, and wearing three bras at once. Nothing worked, and I despaired.

I had decided to simply leave a shoulder shimmy out whenever I danced, when a different teacher learned what I had been told. "Oh, no, honey, " she cackled. "You let the girls go along for the ride!" Astonishment. Vindication. I felt like shimmying up to every one of those teachers and well-wishers, letting them see how I allowed myself FINALLY to go with the flow.

-"... Do they wobble to and fro, Can you tie 'em in a knot...?"-

Sorry to say, I'm still ambivalent about my large tracts of land. If this were fiction, I would be all settled about my feelings by the end of the essay... but this isn't, this is real life. I still feel vaguely unreal just saying "triple D", one of the reasons for this essay in the first place. Perhaps it's just that I'm still not used to them, but even their names are wrong since the cup jump. (No, I'm not revealing their names.)

One of my grandmothers never got used to them. She went through her life, raised her kids, got her doctorate, and then had reduction surgery for the perfect C-cups she'd been presumably dreaming about all those years. The other had her choice taken away from her by cancer-- surgery whether she'd wanted it or not. So far, I'm the only one in two generations that shows such gigantic characteristics. (Maybe that's why the Boob Fairy was so generous!)

I think that I just need more time to get used to these overblown melons permanently blocking the view of my feet. I'll admit it-- the clothes in the top of my closet for the time I'm 25 pounds lighter include many tight shirts. I like being watched, I like being whistled at, and I like having that mysterious power that could cause a traffic accident (but hasn't). But I like holding intelligent conversations, too-- and most often, that involves silencing the knockers in whatever way possible. But why think that humongous breasts show there's little brain? With the square footage, there's even more space for a sparkling mind to hide behind!

Probably even more brain just dealing with the darn things.