To Boob or Not to Boob

Lets pose a question………………….where do big boobs come from??

For as far back as anyone has kept a written record, it seems women have always aspired to have large breasts, often employing ingenious methods of achieving the figure of their dreams. These oft times deceptive and devious contraptions of boob-u-lar enhancement varied with the age of the lady / girl needing to boost both her ego and her miniscule mammary tissue. From the age of puberty, anywhere from the 5th Grade to the 7th in most cases, gym class always a shocking proposition for those not yet caught up in the quest for unnatural chest enhancement. There they were, the same girls who you sat by during Math Class and History, changing into their gym clothes in the Dressing Room, the space above their ribcage either flat as a griddle cake, or already sprouting fledgling breasts, always, always encased in one of those white Training Bras with a tiny bow stuck front and center, the center made of a soft stretchy elastic-like fabric and not even a real cup designed to hold a breast. Considering they HAD no real breasts, I suppose this made some sort of sense. It always made me wonder what the Hell they were supposed to train them to do? I mean, I have to ask here, what tricks can the average Breast perform? It isn’t like they can “Sit Up“, or “Play Dead”.

And then, there was the other class of preteen girl, the ones who wanted breasts desperately but whom God hadn’t seen fit to bless with them. These girls were very imaginative in their methods of achieving their goal, that of appearing to have been turned into a women so as to not be left behind by all their overachieving classmates in the hierarchy of Boob-dom. These girls, in their quest for maturity and ergo, popularity with the males of the species, employed inventive methods of reaching the desired goal. Something as simple as a box of tissues, filched from home, could be and were inserted into a once empty bra, in a clandestine way, of course, giving the appearance of being all grown up. One of the dire consequences of tissue, I was told, was that not only did they rustle when you moved, they also, once mashed flat by something pushing against your chest, refused to plump back into their previous curvaceous form. One of the benefits of the tissue-filled bra had to be that if anyone found out that your budding figure came from a cardboard box rather than nature, you always had something to blow your nose on when you burst into tears of humiliation. Also used were gym socks, clean it has to be hoped, being likewise used as filler. These were difficult to use, being hard to the touch when rolled tightly and shoved into an empty bra and giving a lumpy appearance to the outside of your clothes. Both of these methods left a lot to be desired, I would think, the necessity of having to purchase and wear a bra that you had nothing to put into and then hiding it from your Mother would be enough to daunt even the most stout hearted. Added to that, once you had on the aforementioned bra, where did you conceal yourself to perform the necessary stuffing? It HAD to be finished before you got to school, so ……….on the School Bus? The Girl’s bathroom, after a mad dash into the school from the bus with your books glued to your chest in hopes no one would notice you were less amply endowed than the previous day? To say nothing of the hassle to maintain the overstuffed-bra look once you had completed the goal. This ritual would have to be carried out every day, which meant going through the same trials over and over, for under no circumstances could a girl, once publicly very Boob-a-lis-tic-ly gifted in public, go back to being flat as a tire that had been punctured by a sharp nail.

I have thought maybe there was a “Boob Gene”, an inherited cellular thing that caused generation after generation of massive Boobs to sprout in families, but apparently that isn’t the case. My Mother was “NORMAL” in the bustline, as were her Mother and her sisters. But for some ungodly reason, I and my four sisters were overly blessed by the Tittie Fairy, that fictional nymph of some otherworldly beginnings who flitters around with one broken wing, a bent halo and a crooked wand, bestowing burgeoning mammary glands to innocent female children in the dead of night while they dream of ways to get even with mean little boys. The little witch apparently imbibes heavily, for on occasion she stays too long on her visit (likely passed out from drink! ) and some unsuspecting little girl awakes the next morning with these horrible, embarrassing growths protruding from her once level chest. That is likely what occurred at my house, an explanation that while Mom was average, the 5 sisters of my family went from being the Boob-less wonders to Boob-a-licious in a short fashion. Personally, I remember having……..errrrr….. breasts far before any of my classmates. This not only brought unwanted attention from the males in my class, but also the unwarranted accusations of my females classmates of my own practice of Bra-Tampering in any form. Young ladies, regardless of what one might think, are spiteful and hateful to their peers when they have something they yearn for so anxiously and do not have.

High school brings changes in a girl’s life, for the boys who once wanted to harass and belittle the girls become creatures of Testosterone……..when the manly urge make them take notice of a girls figure and stand at attention, so to speak. Of course, Vicki, being the oldest, kind of blazed a trail for me and my younger sisters. I remember the exact summer when her boobs first got notice. While walking down the gravel road we lived on to a neighbor girl’s house, two of the “older” boys, teenagers who rode the same school bus as us, whistled and called out “Woo-Hoo! Teenie Boppers!”. They also mentioned how Sis had grown up over the summer. I was embarrassed for her, I must say. Bad enough that your very own body was betraying you in this hideous way, but for a guy to actually notice and comment! And it only got worse. Beings as I was only a couple of years younger than Sis, we took to rambling together. Although I couldn’t date, I could and did go on her dates…………as a would-be chaperone…….to parties and movies and such. The problem was, although I was interested in boys, they talked to my breasts instead of me! And being barely 5 feet tall, they had the opportunity to sneak a peek from their loftier height anytime they got close. From the age of 15 or so, both Vicki and I were more than amply endowed. It was a chore to buy bras much less find clothing that fit. And buying a bikini was next to impossible, for it the bra fit, the bottom fell off. If the bottom fit, it was a struggle to cram all the boob into the tiny cup, always leaving excess boob hanging from the sides or the bottom. Disgusting and not at all allowable by a Father who was sure that all the male animals in the world were just waiting to pounce on us the minute we walked into the world and removed our shirts!

With age comes wisdom, and alas, in my case, boobs. As the years have went by, I have learned many things in life are unfair. The disadvantages of being large chested far outweigh the advantages. Running of any sort became virtually impossible, for not only was it painful it was logistically difficult to see past the boobs flying up in your face with every step. Bras to fit me and most of my sisters generally have to be ordered, as stores have so little call for them they don’t stock them. And a discount store carry them ? No Way! The cost alone is anywhere from $25 to $40. Finding a button-up shirt is a aggravation, for if it fits across the shoulders, it will surely gap open across the chest, straining butt holes to the limits. Add the chronic back and shoulder pain and the deep grooves that wide bra straps, burdened with the task of supporting the weight of two large cantaloupes all day, cuts into both your shoulders. Mammograms, which as many know, Vicki discussed recently, are unbearable. While I understand the need to perform the x-rays, I would swear to you that the sex of the inventor had to have been male. No way would a woman force herself and millions of other women to undergo so painful an ordeal. That being said, if the man who invented the machine that tortures women daily worldwide would step forward, I, personally, would like to initiate him into the realm of Womanhood by placing his…….testicular organs into the slabs of glass and squashing the Bejesus out of them while he cringed and tried to pull away, about to scream in pain! I guarantee if men had to suffer that, there would soon be a new, less painful means of testing for Breast Cancer.

As I have gotten older, my breasts, while never perky due to the mass and weight encased inside, have no doubt sagged. Not far, mind you, for it is impossible to sag when a solid mass of tissue stands between them and my belly. Imagine folding over a full sack of dog food…..it won’t go flat as long as it is still full. And being short, I find that they are in very close proximity to my belly regardless. Makes a comfortable resting place at times. The main thing I have noticed as I have aged is sleeping on my back is more difficult. What once lay perfectly on my chest during sleep now has a tendency to fall over into my armpits, making lowering my arms difficult. It would, if I cared, be terribly humiliating for a woman who knows she is on the downward side of forty. Thank God I don’t care! Although going braless has never appealed to me for many reason, now days I look forward to the time when my house clears of teenagers and I can release the gruesome devise of torture I am forced to wear to protect the innocent daily. Although going braless did pay off for Sis once……..she entered a wet t -shirt contest and won a huge trophy. I can remember her bringing it into the parent’s house and them her trying to explain to Dad how she won it without causing a major explosion.

Far be it from me to whine and complain, but when I see these ladies who go to any expense and unnecessary pain in the pursuit of possessing deeper cleavage, it pisses me off! Here I am, overly Boob-u-lated and miserable, desiring nothing more than to wake in the morning to find a miracle, that my huge and monstrous breasts have shrank to a more normal and manageable size, that there are actually women who WANT them!

Thanks

I want to make the effort to thank all of you for your support and kind words of encouragement. I should be used to this by now after dealing with it for a very constant ten years. For some reason, it isn’t like a disease where you can take a pill and find a quick fix. God know I wish it were! Until this recent downward spiral, though, I managed to have more up days than down. And yes, I do know there are many more medications on the market and available. I have such a history of allergic reactions to various drugs, it makes me hesitant to venture into the world of the unknown. Vicki (Sis) has always been a brave soul, leading the pack into danger with no thought to consequences. I, on the other hand, was and am a cautious individual, thinking of the penalty before the action is even completed. I am too housebound, that much I know. And it isn’t fear that makes me stay home, it is apathy. I simply have no desire to step-foot out into the world. There are few places I want to go, even fewer people I care to visit or talk to. I have hardly one friend and, sad to say, my two teenage children and their friends are about the only human contact I have. How did I get this way?? I used to be vivacious and outgoing, with a bubbly sense of the hilarious that turned the world on it’s ear. Somehow, in thirty years of a problematic marriage and raising four children, I have lost myself. I don’t know how to “find” me again, but I am willing to make the effort. More than willing, eager! I have managed to do better the past two days and you can all pat me on the back. I ventured to the new Wal-Mart last night with my daughter and without a specific purchase I simply “HAD” to make. It was refreshingly enjoyable for me and even my very own idea. She was remarkably well behaved ( and she is 18, not a baby, although she has been know to act the part) and we even got along very well. Of Course, it could be that I was spending my carefully hoarded money on make-up for her, but that isn’t the point. I did it, I enjoyed it, and I plan to do it again. And if you really knew me you would know that I hate to shop! Tonight, I cleaned my fish tank, which doesn’t sound too bad. But this is a 59 gallon tank and the 4 fish in it are Paku, a cousin of the Piranha. These fish weigh at least five pounds each and are as wide as a dinner plate. Cleaning their tank is a major undertaking and even though the water they were in was the dark green color of a murky, dank cesspool, I had neglected to clean it for months on end (I am not even sure I have cleaned it since Mom died last June, now I think back). With the help of our least sister, Lana, we accomplished it in a little under two hours. I woke up a full two hours earlier than my norm and even sat up all day; not once have I laid on the couch. That in it’s self is a major accomplishment for me. I am trying to overcome this. And somehow I will. Maybe not tomorrow or even the next day. But at some point, life has to have meaning again. If not, there isn’t a lot of point, is there?

Donna's Life

This story won’t be the hilarious, tongue-in-cheek parody of country life and the antics of five fun-filled little girls, the sort I have poured into a typewriter and posted with the thought of sharing with the world our wonderful childhood. Instead, it is why I have apparently ceased to function and live a normal life, much less compose anything of a humorous nature in the past days and months.

There is a Demon in my life, looming large and always lurking around every corner with the intent to shatter my everyday world, spreading it’s gloom and doom to me and all who surround me. This monster is Depression. It drains the life out of me, taking away physical as well and mental strength. It saps the emotions from the soul of anyone who has it and effects those whose lives are connected. Nothing matters to me. I try to work up a bit of enthusiasm for ANYTHING and it is impossible. I can’t focus on an occupation for any amount of time. My mind wanders when I try to play a game or read a book. Concentrating long enough to watch a television program is useless. I get so tired sitting on the couch, I have to lie down and rest. I stay up all night because, even with a sleeping aid, I rarely sleep. Even when I do, I wake up exhausted and unable to function. I can barely make myself move, much less lead the active life I have always enjoyed. Most days, I don’t even want to try. The least thing makes me cry.

Suffering from Depression is bad enough, but even worse is no one understands how I feel. I can’t describe it to them, they just don’t get it. I have been told to “Snap out of it!’, or to “Get over it!” more times than I can count. Doesn’t anyone realize that no one would purposely choose to live this way? It is a living Hell, with no end; a succession of days when death looks like a release from the anguish of dealing with this everyday of the rest of my life. There is no cure and treatments have their own drawbacks. I have been on treatment for over 8 years, the pills no longer help that much. The Doctor suggested doubling them, I can’t do that. The medicines used to treat it, over a period of time, kills whatever emotions I have that still work. I feel dead inside, my life is hopelessly spiraling downward and I don’t have a clue how to stop it. I am afraid, the future looks very bleak for me, and I don’t know where to find the strength to get up everyday. I am tired, so deathly tired that doing anything is a chore. Simply putting on my clothes is a major undertaking. I struggle everyday to just make it till bedtime, and God willing, to find the energy to rise once again in the morning.

I haven’t given up, not by a long shot. This ole gal won’t go down easy. I have fought every day for the past eight years and will continue to until my last breath. I will be back, ya’ll, that I promise. I have licked this before and will again. But today, please, for me, just ask God to send some strength to me, cause I truly need it.