It felt as if I was standing naked in front of my fifth grade class, save for a pair of nipple tassels. No, this isn't the story about my friend's birthday party at the strip club - this is the moment I realized I had boobs. Big ones.
My gym class was doing a dance unit and on the last day of class, we celebrated with the limbo. I got really into it and soon the line dwindled down to a select few. I lowered my body under the bar, stretching each vertebra, hoping to make it under. Only the tips of my newly budding breasts grazed the bar, which caused the entire class - including the teachers - to double over in laughter. Funny. Real frickin' funny.
My boobs continued to curse me. In middle school, my friend's older brother called me Hooters."" I couldn't buy a decent swimsuit at the Limited Too. Everything my friends wore looked age appropriate, but when I wore the same clothes, my mom said I looked like a chain-smoking prostitute. By high school, everyone appreciated them, but they continue to be a heavy burden to shoulder.
With great boobs comes power but also not-so-great bras. The ""gifted"" don't wear bras - we wear bullet-proof vests. My bras aren't even that bad; you should see my mom's. They're like connected caps for conjoined twins who have melon-sized heads.
My less ample friends can get jealous, especially when I decide to wear a plunging haltertop. But members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee have a handful of conveniences unavailable to the big-boobed population.
Girls who have mosquito-esque boobs or just a handful can run into any old store and find an array of bras decorated with diamonds, skulls, feathers, hearts, unicorns and countless other womanly treasures. Everything fits. Straps need not be adjusted. All sizes are available in stock. Lucky bitches.
I, on the other hand, am forced to go to a secret store (not Victoria's) where heavily made-up grandmothers hunch under the weight of their jewelry. This is where the girls with the jugs shop. It's not for amateurs.
I frequent this little boutique where a dwarf-like lady named Ethel helps me during my dreaded annual visit. After she leads me to the dressing room, she comes back with a heap of what appears to be various prosthetics. She insists on staying in the room while I try them on.
""Ashley,"" she says, her perfume filling up the shower size dressing room. ""The more you cooperate, the faster this will be.""
After a few minutes, I give up on pushing her out. I don't have the energy to say no, and with her in the room, even un-athletic women find ways to move faster than ever. I whip on one slingshot after another so that Ethel can't sneak a peek at my treasures.
""This one is real popular right now,"" Ethel explains with her coral stained lips. ""See how it cuts you right there,"" she points with her stubby hands. ""This is pushing you up but giving you the exact amount of coverage you need. Perfect.""
By the time she rings me up, I am exhausted, broke and slowly digesting the fact that Ethel's arthritic hand actually cupped my bare boobs. And that I didn't hate it.
That night my friend came over to get ready for a night on the town. While looking at herself in the mirror, I caught her tugging at her shirt with a slight frown on her face. I know how she feels about her lack of boobs, and in a strange way, I found myself relating to her.
Both the flat and I, the cursed and gifted, have to persevere. Flat girls are forced to stuff their bras with Jell-O, while I have to wear military garb under my clothes every day. Even though some girls have cute bras and matching underwear, I have the option of eating a meal without a table.
Have you ever been inappropriately touched by an old lady? Tell Ashley at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
