Teen Tiny Love
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How I Learned to Love My Small Boobs
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By the time I was ten years old I wanted my boobs to come in so badly that if I felt even a trickle of sweat dissolve down my chest, I’d rush to my father’s tool kit that he kept in the bottom drawer of his office cabinet, and immediately use the tape measurer to gage any growth.
When I was a young girl, I lived a sedentary lifestyle. I walked during every running test that the school forced me to take. On family bike rides, I rode a scooter several miles behind. During physical education, one could find me exercising my right to sit in the nurse’s office for forty-five minutes. I was the champion of the lazy, an activist for the un-athletic.
Previously, I had been able to shove every piece of food down my throat without thinking twice, watching the calories dissolve into an immense, dark, nothingness. Suddenly, the same food that had been down to hit-it-and-quit-it, wanted to stick around and get to know me. My arms had tiny sacks of squish. There was a thick layer of what my mother called “love” at the bottom of my belly. Fat had not only decided to crash my prepubescent party, but instead of fleeing when the cops came to the door, they were already passed out in every room of my house. The only part of my body that chub had in fact chosen not to occupy, were my two twin beds. My boobs were a vacant lot, completely deserted. And although I begged and pleaded with god to send me willing tenants, my chest remained an empty, unimpressive, flat.
I did my research. I read all the books, connecting with my undersized sisters in arms: Judy Blume, Meg Cabot, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. The latter blessed me with my new best friend, a protagonist named Alice, a young girl kind enough to teach me about two very significant skills. The first was a woman’s only work out: I’d spend thirty minutes each day staring myself down in my bathroom mirror, school uniform sprawled against the marble floor like the flag of fallen soldiers. I’d extend both my arms out horizontally, then pump my fists back and forth like a pendulum, simultaneously chanting “I must, I must, Increase my bust”. It was as if I’d joined the cult of A-minus cups, and the time out of each day that I dedicated to their cause, was my form of ritual sacrifice. But if the books I had read were indeed correct, this minimal movement could move me up several sizes in only a few months. I had been determined, but even more, I had been optimistic. Unfortunately, the only thing I gained from this practice was an unbelievable patience for completely wasting my own time, as well slightly more toned upper arms from all the fist pumping.
This was evidenced by the second lesson my literature had revealed to me: the pencil test. Once a week, id attempt balance a perfectly sharpened number two between what could only be described as my chesticles, back bending like a gymnast in order to convince myself that my bosom held the writing utensil on its own. Each time the pencil dropped, so would my heart rate.
I had never been so disappointed in myself, so resenting of time. I blamed my workouts, extending the pumping to an hour each day. After several months, I slowly began to see results. I had also started buying thicker pencils. But that was beside the point.
When my mounds had progressed to that of a triple-A cup, classified by the American Girl Body Book as “breast buds”, I wrote to Santa and formally requested a bra for Christmas. I had written the letter on my own customized stationary that my aunt from California gave me as an elementary school graduation gift, and had waited on line at Macy’s Santa land for over three hours, just so that I could sit on Mr. Claus’s lap, slip the wish into the palm of his hand, whispering into his right ear, “read it once I leave.”
When the morning of magic finally arrived, I shoved my sister out of the bed we both traditionally shared on Christmas Eve night, racing downstairs to the faux-fireplace where we had stuck our makeshift stockings. I was pleased to find a tiny package with something soft inside. I covertly stuck the wrapping in my pajama pant leg and excused myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. There, I peeled back the paper to find sensuously soft, cotton, wireless wonder. Painted in a pastel palate of white and pink, I was entranced by the intimate delicacy of the item. I thought it to be the most beautiful piece of promise in the entire world. Now I know that it was in fact, a training bra.
There was a sudden knock on the door, and I cracked it open, eyeing the outside world. My mother, two aunts, and grandmother yanked me out of my moment of serenity, grabbing my gift out of my hands like a trophy. They all started yapping at once, crowding around me, gaggling and fawning over how “precious” my pubescence was. I turned as red as Saint Nick’s coat. The struggle to escape was pointless; they held me in their claws.
The women chanted in unison, circling around me like a hungry shark and it’s prey. They celebrated my matron hood like a death sentence. And with one swift movement, they had me naked and trembling. They threw the bra over my head, holding my arms up for arrest. Applause erupted as I felt the fabric brush up against my forearms. That winter day, I became a woman. I had been initiated into the fold.
It took me years to accept that my small chest was something to be proud of. I had always felt that they were these thingamabobs that I had to prod, push, and prop up. They were objects, disconnected from me as a whole, with the sole purpose of drawing attention from others. But once I separated myself from my audience, and reunited my body as a single organism, I realized that my bust was beautiful because it was mine: utterly unique to me. And in a moment of clarity and serenity, I embraced that sensation of being special. It was, however, the last time I asked Santa for a gift: turns out he’s about as real as my tits were at the time.
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