I want to begin this post by clarifying something.
I love my boobs. Seriously. They are fabulous and I wouldn’t do anything in this world to replace them with anything else. I’m happy to have them by my side whenever
I‘m laying down need a handful of jiggly happiness to cry on. I believe they are superb. I don’t want this post to seem like a giant complain-fest. It’s simply the honest truth about having big boobs.
Because mine are ginormous.
I’m being honest. You could probably see them from where you’re sitting right now. I can barely fit half of one in my hand when I grab on to them (yes, I’ve tried) and when I look down, I can’t see my feet. For a large handful (pun intended) of my life, they have been large. When I was in seventh grade, all of the kids in choir made fun of me because I refused to wear a bra until my mother tackled me down and force-fed me a training bra (I thought it was uncomfortable). Kids in my high school nicknamed me BLT. And it had nothing to do with my devotion to bacon, lettuce, and tomato. The acronym was for ‘Big-Lucious-Tits.”
For a long time, I believed that there was nothing positive about having big tatas. Firstly, you can never wear skimpy clothing without looking like a slut (or risking a nipple slip). Second, I understand men love boobs but during insecure moments I wondered if they just wanted to talk to me because they were so obnoxiously huge. And third, I was convinced come 40, I would have to tuck them in my socks or tie them over my head.
Having 34 DD’s comes with major restrictions, but I’ve learned to embrace my lovely jugs. Although I can never wear really cute, skimpy swimsuits and racy tops (out of fear I’ll immediately come off as a slut and experience generous side/under boob) I’ve found a subtly sexy way to dress myself… and my two big friends. I’ve come to discover my own set of sexy big-boobied bras as well as the wonderful ones that minimize my lady friends. People I just meet never know my boobs are the size of a human head until I tell them. I’ve come to like it that way.
Oftentimes, guys don’t know what to do with them. Sometimes, they end up grabbing them so hard mid-makeout sesh, I have bruises all over them the next day. And when I’m working out, I don’t know what to do with them. It hurts when I go running because they are busy pummeling my chest and nearly smacking me upside the head. To prevent it, I’ve been forced to wear (on average) three sports bras when I work out. [Editors Note: On the opposite end of the spectrum I use a little scotch tape and I’m ready for a marathon.]
Come the end of college (and when Mama’s insurance was running out), I debated getting a breast reduction. They had yet to physically hurt me – I think my North Face backpack and Geology books beat them to that point – but one of my girlfriends had recently underwent breast reduction surgery and she did not regret it. I saw her happy (almost to the point of being light on her feet – seriously, was she actually floating?) and I envied her. Her boobs were the perfect size while I was busy shoving my nipples back into my bra.
But after a long, hard, topless look in the mirror, I decided against it. (Note: I also decided it was time to be more cognizant of locking my bedroom door, but that’s a whole other story.)
After struggling with accepting myself as a curvy, big-boobed lady in high school and learning how to express myself as a curvy, luscious woman in college, I realized that I actually love my boobs. Every single pound of them. As many difficulties and slight insecurities they have brought me over the years, they are a part of who I’ve become and, multiple sports bras or not, I wouldn’t have my body any other way.
Love your boobs or hate ’em, make sure you take care of them!
[Lead image via Aleksandr Doodko/Shutterstock]