My Boobs Are Too Big

My Boobs Are Too Big

Society is built on four essential and dominating pillars: Husky puppies, Game of Thrones, Dunkin coffee, and most importantly, first impressions. Whether we like to admit it or not, the power of a first impression is incalculable and because we give them so much clout, they are harder to shake than STDs. Psychologists have said that people form opinions about others in less than two seconds of meeting them. What does this have to do with having above-average-sized shirt-sabouters? I’ll get to that later. Having larger boobage sucks.

Of course, a busty chest is, first and foremost, inconvenient. Strapless bras, bathing-suits, sports bras? Well, just forget about those. And don’t even get me started on going braless. Big boobs take up way too much space, they make exercise an act of engineering rather than fitness, they are a regular point of conversation, they make everything I wear look like a Playboy campaign, and the boob-sweat could fry a batch of McDonald’s french fries. Not only are they an evil to our fragile spines, but they are a true villain to our bank accounts, and the investments made are comparable to our grandma’s table-cloth wrapped in enough underwire to construct an electric fence.

And as if these larger-than-life shoulder boulders weren’t already a bother, to say the least, they end up being one of the most preeminent and recognizable definitions of my identity. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I like being known, but I would prefer to be known for something other than a simple act of engineering by God or for something that is not usually associated with porn, nipples, or lactation.

I mean, don’t misunderstand: I love my body. Yeah, the jiggles on my thighs could reach dangerous levels on the Richter scale and without three layers of sports bras, I can’t exercise without giving the general public my own personal rendition of “Bounce It” by Juicy J. But as a whole, I think I give off the “probably-does-20-minutes-of-cardio-but-can-easily-eat-three-pieces-of-pizza” vibe, and I’m okay with that. But I wish that my chest wasn’t so noticeable all of the time.

I try to dress like everyone else. You know, I’m just a college gal trying to be trendy, but when I follow trends, I either wear my size and look like a bimbo or wear a bigger size and look like a frumpy imbecile. I would just like to be allowed to wear a tank top in August and not be criticized for looking like a naughty nympho from a video game. It ends up being the only thing that people remember about me. I want my first impression to be remembered by the content of my character, not the conspicuity of my cleavage.

So, if studies show that people confirm their opinions on others in less than two seconds, how do I overcome my image as a cheesy sex-motif? Obviously, I can’t cut off these tater tots. If I can only afford one supportive bra, then I certainly can’t afford plastic surgery. And why should I? I like them, I just don’t like their stigma.

Sure, I could exclusively wear oversized t-shirts, turtlenecks, or parkas, but why should these dinosaur eggs be hidden away? I don’t want to conceal one of the things that sets me apart, I just don’t want it to be the only thing that sets me apart. So what is a bosomy girl to do to conquer the demon of her melons’ reputation? Will anyone ever see past the first impression left by my organically-exaggerated sternum? I mean, it’s just a physical characteristic, built by genetics, chance, and probably excessive cheesecake or hot wings that I didn’t need to eat.

If you have been defined by any physical trait, then you know how I feel. Perhaps, you’re the girl with the big nose, or the guy with a lot of freckles. It is a compliment, sure, but it’s hard not to worry that no one will see more than just those things. Upon realizing how much I was judged, I recognized how much I judge. I notice the clashing patterns on people’s pants, the wrinkles by their eyes, the frizziness of their hair before ever listening to the substance coming out of their mouths.

So, maybe we could all make an effort to stop making quick judgements based on others’ appearances. No one should be defined by their complexion, tone of voice, hair texture, skin pigment, clothing brands, freakin’ wingedness of their eyeliner, or any other negligible trait…like their damn bra size. Let’s define each other by our fascinations, relationships, senses of humor, or even our freakin’ favorite foods. No one is one thing; we are all amalgamations of several vital virtues – we’re just savory cakes, embellished with sprinkles and frosting, with different ingredients to give us true flavors. I mean, doesn’t all frosting taste the same anyway? (Leave it to me to use a food metaphor.)

But the point is that even though I don’t mind, and sometimes even like, being known for these upper body passionfruits, I hope that people recognize that there might be a little bit more to me than the naturally-superfluous nature of my chest, the same way that there is more to that girl with the rolling backpack or the boy with the slim-rimmed glasses. So, give people chances. Introduce yourself. Get to know people past the first impression. You’ll be surprised what you’ll find out that you might have overlooked.

And maybe you think that this commentary is annoying, hypocritical, or just another white girl complaining about first-world, immaterial obstacles. And I really can’t argue with you there. But I hope you can still appreciate that the plight of being more than a D-Cup transcends breasts, fashion trends, or other superficial bullshit. We shouldn’t judge others based on their appearances, but on their integrity and their spirit, because even though creepy and lascivious douchebags may think differently, the content of my character comes out in what I say, not in what bra size I wear.

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