My boobs grew again. Seriously, I finally had a nice collection of proper fitting bra's, and now, all of them are too tight, and if I don't stuff myself into place properly, I end up with the much sought after "four boob" look, which is oh so (not) sexy. It's like my body doesn't know that I am almost thirty, and puberty was over long ago. They just keep bumping up a cup size every year. You would think, that if my tits thought that they were teenagers, they would be all perky and whatnot too, but nope, gravity is winning that battle.
I know that to all you flat-chested people out there, I must sound like one of those skinny girls that goes on and on about how fat they are. But believe me, some days I think that I'd sell my soul to have some perky 34 B's.
My breasts and I have always had a bit of a love/hate relationship. When I didn't have them, I wished I did, because I so wanted to grow up, and look more like a woman than a little boy. But then, all of a sudden, I got my wish, and all those dreams of looking like a woman went away in a flash.
I'll never forget the day that my mom took me into the bathroom and measured my chest, because it was time to get a bra. When the bra arrived, I tried it on, and stared at myself in the mirror for hours. I felt like I had been chained up in a dungeon against my will. My mom and I had many arguments over my not wanting to wear the damn thing. In the end, she usually won out, because I knew she was right, but it was just so embarrassing. All the girls at school my age, who wore bras were taunted by the boys daily. Getting my bra straps snapped, and having crude comments thrown my way, was not something I wanted to endure on a daily basis.
When I was 14, all the boys in my class started to notice how big I was getting, and mocked me incessantly. A teacher took them all aside, and gave them royal hell about it, and they stopped. That was, until, they realized they could tease me about my big "arms", and have no one notice that it was code word for "boobs". To this day, there are text books in my old school that have "Abigail has big arms!" written in them. (Of course, this gave me a complex about my fat arms, that I still deal with to this day.)
Eventually, I accepted the fact that I was going to have huge knockers, and found out that they could be used to my advantage in more ways than one. Showing off a little cleavage could be fun, and attention could be nice.
A few years ago, I made the decision to get them reduced. They are not the biggest melons ever, but they're too big for me. I figured, once I had decided if I was going to have kids or not, and had those kids, I was heading to the doctor to get the process moving. Having my boobs grow again, has reinforced that decision, even though the thought of surgery, or losing a nipple, scares the crap out of me. I just don't want to be 60 years old, with my girls bigger than my head, draggin' on the floor. Believe me, that's where I'm headed. I am destined to be an old Ukrainian baba, inside and out. Not that I mind all that much, but what can I say, old baba boobs just aren't on my wish list.
Now, I dream of a day when I can go bra-shopping without breaking the bank, having the option to buy "sexy" over "functional", or having to figure out how to get the unnecessary padding out of the real pretty bras that I would love to wear.