I was looking in the mirror today and have finally decided on an adequate description of what I look like. It can best be described as a cross between a Playboy Bunny and Santa. The top of me seems to say, Hey there, big boy, why don’t you come over here and bounce these around? while my lower half insinuates my participation in some kind of unfair elfin-labor practice.
I should perhaps mention that I have always wanted large breasts, or at least larger breasts. I am what I like to call a “Littlest Angel,” the girl who has almost enough. I only became fully aware of my small stature when I went into Victoria’s Secret about a year ago. While trying to pick a little something new, fully confident of the size I was looking for, I was accosted by an elderly woman with a tape measure. Seeing me pawing through her precious B cups had set her off and she took it upon herself to tell me that I had obviously been mis-sized. Using nothing but a claw like hand and a cluck of her tongue, she took my breasts down a full cup size. I went from a 32B to a 34A. I was devastated. And pissed. And I didn’t listen. I decided I was going to be a B, even if it was a fraudulent B. It’s like when I go to Old Navy when I want to be a size smaller. Sometimes you just need the label.
So, that being said, one would think my new breasts would be the most wonderful gift nature could give to me. And it wasn’t a gradual thing, either! I went to bed at eight weeks pregnant fitting perfectly into my falsified Bs, only to wake up with two sizable cantaloupes sprouting out of my chest. I don’t even know where breasts like this come from! Where did I get all the material to make these boobies? Am I eating whole chickens in the middle of the night? How did I achieve what only can only be best described as, well, hooters?
That’s right; I have hooters. Big, luscious hooters. I have the large, hey-look-at-me cleavage I’ve always wanted. V-necks, no longer off-limits; scoop necks have people are looking down my shirt! I don’t look like an idiot when I wear a wrap around! Hooray!
Oh! Have I forgot to mention that I hate them?
I don’t like my big breasts, and I wish they were gone. They are heavy and I can no longer wear anything with buttons. I have to wear a bra all the time, even with my tank tops that have built in ones. And I think they are throwing of my center of balance because I keep bumping into things like the table, the bookshelves, and the earth. I want to return them to whatever parasitic planet they came from. And, worse yet, they’re just gonna get bigger. Bigger and bigger, until they hit a) my chin or b) even worse, my knees.
And now I learn that my areolas might darken … to brown. That makes me very sad. Second bowl of ice cream sad. Now please, understand, this is not a dig against those with darker pigment. Let all nipples of many colors join hands and sing “Kumbaya.” There is nothing wrong with darker nipples; dark nipples are fantastic.
Just not on me.
For the whole of my life, my areolas have been one color, and one color only. I am a Disney Princess pink girl. I like the pink. It’s one of the things I really, really love about my body. The color makes me feel feminine and soft. Now some may reason that being pregnant should make me feel like the definition of femininity, and while I see their point, it kinda … doesn’t. With exception of the large boobs, pregnancy has done more to change my body into that of a middle aged man than that of a towering pillar of womanhood. I’m gassy, sprouting weird hair, and losing control of my bladder when I sneeze. I’m growing a belly that will soon rival any grown with beer and chips. I’m a little angry I’ll soon be losing my last strong hold of my sugar and spice.
As of right now, I’m still of a rosy hue. I’ve taken to staring at my breasts every couple of hours, checking to see if they’ve switched. I need one of those paint strips that starts with the light shade and progressively gets darker.
I swear, if I end up with big, brown, punching-bag breasts, I’m exchanging the baby for a boob job and a puppy. Puppies don’t make your breasts swell.