Life in Asymmetry

As a little girl, I dreamed of having boobies. Wearing a blue polka-dot bikini top under my clothes and stuffing it with Kleenex, I stared, long and hard at myself in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door, imagining what would one day grow on my chest. Other days I dressed in the souvenir coconut-shell bra I got in Hawaii, and filled it with balled up socks. My fascination didn’t end with my own body. I loved to watch my mom go through her primping routines. Sitting cross-legged on my parents’ bed, I got a good view into the bathroom where she sat at an armoire applying makeup as she readied herself for a rare night out with Pop. She wore a fitted silk half-slip and a conically shaped bra, and a favorite strand of her mother’s pearls adorned her neck, striking against her tanned chest. She looked like a Hollywood starlet getting ready for her debut, turning and inspecting herself from every angle. I took mental notes on all the details of her appearance and filed them under “beautiful” in my mind. Then they arrived. Puberty brought me little perkies, or technically, “breast buds,” as my pediatrician Dr. Zanvil called them at my appointment. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, he then used his three middle fingers to probe at my barely-there chest. Then, to lend insult to injury, he proceeded to place my mom’s hands on my chest so she could feel me up too. All was not as grand as I expected with these new appendages. I was the first girl in the fifth grade to get them; a time in life when the last thing I wanted was to stick out. I remember learning to play bridge as a part of our math unit that spring and I was more concerned with making sure my cards covered my chest than in how many trumps I could take that round. What I had longed for so badly-now seemed mostly irritating. They were there to stay though, so I decided to make the most of my mounds, and fortunately, within a year they were coming in handy. They were a big part of the reason that Marc Rosenblum kissed me when we played spin the bottle at 6th grade science camp, and again two years later, sitting in the gazebo outside the 8th grade graduation dance, when Matt Bloom put his hands under my Gunnysack top and sloppily groped my newly ripe melons. Slumber parties became the best—a chance to take off our t-shirts and show each other our cool new bras. After watching a VCR movie like Ghost Busters or Back to the Future, all the party girls would gather in from of the bathroom mirror, wearing only pajama pants and no tops and chant: "We must, we must, We must increase our bust. The bigger the better, The tighter the sweater, The boys are depending on us!" By high school I had full-fledged boobs, and I wore them like badges of honor. Young and firm, they provided a great display in my swim team suit, strapless Junior Prom dress, and my billowing, hippy blouses. For my suitors, they were an amusement park, and I was glad to have them to share. My melons were there for the ride when I lost my virginity. Juiced up on homemade wine coolers, wearing my first lacey bra, Dire Straits “Water of Love” playing in the background, and Tim’s crimson hair and matching red condom--it was the perfect setting for a Valentine’s Day to remember. Once collegiate, my breasts were most fully appreciated. It was their most playful time in life. They were described by those lucky enough to get to know them as “stacked,” “a nice rack,” and, one of my all-time favorite compliments, “a perfect handful.” Looking equally great jutting out underneath my UCSC banana slug hoodie or in a push-up bra as they bounced to the rhythm of my funk moves at dance parties, my ta-tas enjoyed this new carefree life. They were even bestowed the nickname “billabongs” for the way they curved around the shaft of the 5-foot bong we enjoyed on the weekends. Those girls were ready to rock. But like a good college party, busted early for being too big or loud, my booby party was cut short by a quick turn of events. Suddenly my breasts were bulls-eyes.