“More than a handful’s a waste” said every teenage boy of the 1990s.
I don’t know whether it’s a waste as such, but I can tell you that it’s bloody hard to lug around on your chest day after day after back breaking, shoulder hunching, non-strapless dress wearing day!
I was one of those girls others considered “lucky”. I developed early, most noticeably in the boobs department. I was a wonderful perky 10C by the time I was 14 years old, which, coincidently, was the last time I had anything resembling great boobs. So terribly wasted on the young.
From that point on they just grew and grew and by the time I was in my late teens they were almost bigger than I was. Ok, not quite, but enough to seem like they entered the room around 5 minutes before the rest of me.
Fitting wise, I’ve been from 10C (laaaaaaa, insert angel sounds here), through DD, to BEING ABLE TO TOUCH THEM WITH MY CHIN while pregnant. At worst, they topped out at a G – for GINORMOUS!! True story - I actually used to give myself dead arm in the night while pregnant from lying on my side. Sexy, I know.
When it came to breastfeeding my boobs were far and away bigger than my poor son’s head and I feared for his little life every time he latched on. The girls in my mothers group were so good at feeding their little angles so discreetly under beautifully draped blankets and scarves. Not massive norgs Nancy here though. I remember with horror sitting across from one of these ladylike feeders in the early days of mothers group, trying to sort myself out with this classy cover up situation but instead hefting out a solid mass of boobage that would have put Anna Nicole to shame (God rest her soul) practically into this poor girl’s face! I will never forget the look in her eyes, poor love. Thank god she still talks to me (handy really as I stole all my parenting tips from her when the kids were babies) but I still fear I ,ay have to pay for her therapy one day!
Stupidly, I am in fact a living breathing example of the cautionary tale; “Be careful what you wish for”. I have distinct memories of - despite not being in the slightest bit religious - PRAYING with all my heart “Dear God, please give let me have big boobs when I grow up” x 1000! I can still see my self to this day, standing around the corner from my Mum’s bedroom door (for some reason), hands clasped, whispering fervently over and over to a power I didn’t necessarily believe in for something I didn’t know I should never have wanted!
And thus I found myself closing in on 40 with a pair of 8FFs threatening to lodge themselves in my belly button before the year was out. I had back ache, shitty posture, and a hatred of having to travel 20mins to another suburb that stocks ridiculously-expensive-yet-purely-functional-and -not-at-all-attractive structurally engineered bras. So, this year I decided, a whole 21 years after I first looked into it, that they had to go. It was them or me.
To my own amazement, I bit the bullet and had the operation about 3 months ago. I couldn’t believe how easy it all was compared to what I had built it up to be - with, of course, a few hiccups and a smattering of hilarity along the way (sneeze induced exploding boobs anyone?!?). And no shit, do you know what my surgeon said when I asked her to take me back to the glory days of a 10C? She cupped her hand in the air and said, with no sense of irony, “ that’s just about a good handful”. Maybe teenage boys aren’t all that stupid after all.