I’ve written about my ginormous breasts before. About my two breast-reduction surgeries. About my issues with body image and plastic surgery. And nursing after redux. But I’ve never gone into detail re: my quest for little-ish boobs because before now? There was no happy ending to the story.
At my largest, I wore a 36 FF. I was seventeen and miserable. I hated my body, my custom-made bathing-suits, my extra-large shirts.
But that’s not where my journey began. No ma’am.
In 8th grade, I was made honorary president of Diegueno Jr. High’s “Itty Bitty Titty Committee.” I was the last of my friends to start my period and subsequently grow boobs. The boys made fun of me. Girls called me names. I rocked an ultra-padded 32 AAA until 9th grade when I landed my first B cup.
Rockin AA soccer and a B cup, 9th grade
By 10th grade I was rocking a D, which wasn’t that big a deal. Plenty of girls I knew had large boobs. I just happened to be one of them.
Junior year was when everything went south. Literally. It didn’t matter that I was sixteen. My “girls” were low-riders. They had no choice. They were massive pendulums from hell. Forces of nature, not to be reckoned with.
Unless of course, you were gravity.
In which case, they were fucked.
trying to contain my cleavage, Halloween, Senior year.
Before my first reduction, I asked my surgeon to give me a small C cup. For the first month or so after the surgery my breasts were indeed a C, albeit a large C. Breast reduction surgery is NOT an exact science. Swelling and even after-growth affect the size you actually end-up with, but for me, it was more than that. I was eighteen when I had my first surgery and apparently fell victim to the fact that my breasts weren’t finished growing.
By my 20th birthday, my boobs were so pissed off at me for paying a surgeon to chop them off, they grew back. Not to their full potential, mind you, but at 36 DD they were still pretty huge. My doctor insisted on re-doing my reduction, so he did. And I got to deal with the aftermath of not being able to wipe my own ass for six weeks, all over again.
Two years after my second surgery, my breasts were once again D cups. And D cups they have been ever since, through my pregnancy with Archer, Fable, and beyond… It wasn’t until about three months ago that I noticed a change. My D bras were suddenly gapping and everywhere I went people were commenting about my weight-loss, which wasn’t nearly as drastic as it apparently looked.
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when my friend asked me if “I had recently stopped breastfeeding” that I realized how much smaller I was.
“No offense but your boobs have disappeared. They’re gone. You look like a boy.”
It was one of the nicest things anybody had ever said to me.
I bought him a coffee and an hour of WiFi.
And that day? I went home and tried on all the bras that Hal shrunk over the years by accidentally drying them.
Sure enough? They all fit. Unfortunately they were too disfigured to wear comfortably without stab-wounds. But still. I was elated.
And so? I did something that I haven’t done in many, many years: I went bra shopping.
“When was the last time you got sized?” the nice lady at Nordstrom asked me.
“Let’s seee heeeeeeeere,” she said, wrapping her tape around my rib cage.
“Uh huh! Just as I suspected. 34C.”
It was a Christmas miracle. In the middle of February. I started to cry.
“Don’t cry, honey!” she said, signaling to my postpartum shriveled-up little booblets. “Your girls are just darling.”
“I know it!” I cheered.
Ten years of surgeries and discomfort, custom-made bathing-suits, psychological wtfuckedupness and thousands of dollars trying to stop my effing tits from regenerating like alligator-lizard tails, and my girls are FINALLY darling.