32-A: It’s an ID indelibly etched in my mind, a number/letter classification system describing the size of my breasts. “What are you?” a woman asks her friend when discussing boob size. “I’m a 36-C” the friend proudly responds, as though her identity is defined by the girth of her chest.
There’s no doubt that in recent times breast size and self-image have become inextricably linked. Far too often, it’s the gals with small breasts who have disdain for the size of their bosom. It’s not uncommon to hear them comment that they’ve considered or are considering plastic surgery.
Perhaps I’m in the minority, but I’ve always been comfortable with my small set of ta-tas; in fact, I love them. If you ask some well-endowed women, they will tell you that a small rack is a blessing: I should count my lucky nips I don’t have to contend with a pair of enormous hooters, they say. Some mosquito-biters, however, are convinced they’re DNA misfits; they simply can’t stand the way they look. They stuff. They pad. They look to surgeons to help assuage their insecurities, to turn them into Baywatch babes. Though I try not to judge those who go the augmentation route (well, that’s not entirely true: I happen to think the artificial ravine separating Tory Spelling’s bombs looks terrible), I’ve never been able to fully grasp the psyche of a saline-seeker and can’t help but wonder why so many itty-bitty-tittied women aren’t fulfilled until they are, quite literally, filled – with a bag of goo.
I am proud to represent fellow A-cuppers everywhere. Not only that, but I would like to offer up a few reasons why I feel my lovely, little lollipops are a breast above the rest.
- Years (and years) ago, I played high school soccer with a girl who had the hugest pair of fun bags (only they weren’t so fun for her). Not only did this poor gal constantly complain of horrible back pain, but she also had to strap herself into three sports bras just to keep her melons from colliding with her chin when she ran. Even then, a gaggle of horny, teenage boys religiously packed the sidelines to get a glimpse of those massive knockers bouncing up and down uncontrollably. I remember at the time thinking how lucky I was to have been blessed with a pint-sized rack. I’ve been a successful athlete my entire life, and I’m not sure how I could have competed as well as I did (and still do) if I had to contend with a pair of Dolly Partons and a sideline of drooling horndogs.
- People look me in the eyes when I’m speaking. Well-endowed women often complain about the roving male eye and its tendency to fall below neck-level. Granted, sometimes there’s just no way to hide a large pair of humdingers (click here for more fun on boob synonyms), making a large-chested gal’s dilemma even more frustrating. As Joe Simpson once infamously said about his daughter Jessica’s bosom, “She’s got double Ds, you can’t cover those suckers up.” Eww factor of doting daddy aside, he speaks the truth. Thankfully, it’s not something I’ll ever have to worry about.
- I can go commando, and that’s kind of liberating. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to burn all my bras in effigy like the feminists of yesteryear (a pair of headlights can be rather embarrassing at the office), but to not have to always be strapped in is kind of nice.
- I look good in slinky tops. I was recently shopping at a New York City boutique trying on some over-priced clothes. At one point, I came out of the dressing room in a very sexy halter shirt. The fabric draped gracefully along the sides of my torso, framing my small hush puppies delicately, giving just the slightest hint of what lay beneath. It was so fabulous that a nearby shopper exclaimed “Oh my God, I have to try that on,” immediately instructing one of the employees to track down her size. Several minutes later, a pair of tamales resembling those of Victoria Beckham emerged from the dressing room next to me. My former admirer (and her very fake, rock-hard twofers) was now wearing the same top. A look of dejection washed over her face as we stood next to each other, gazing into the three-way mirror, beholding the fashion faux-pas before us. “It doesn’t quite look the same on me,” she said. “I think you just need to have smaller breasts to wear it,” I responded. The irony was tragic. I surmised this woman purchased a pair of Zeppelins in order to look better in tops, so she could feel more confident about her appearance, and there she was, looking almost cartoonish and completely deflated, or rather, inflated.
- As we age, our Pointer-Sisters begin their inevitable battle with gravity. Thanks to my small pair of meat loaves, I’ll have far less saggage to contend with when I become a grandma.
It’s not that I dislike big mondos (in fact, I admire great looking cleavage), nor am I adamantly opposed to those who go the cosmetic route; after all, there are many women for whom plastic surgery is a real God-send, especially those who’ve undergone the harrowing ordeal of mastectomies. But I’ve begun to grow weary of the constant pity-party comments of females who wish they had bigger bon-bons, of ladies never being satisfied with their bodies, of the continuous images of Hollywood women who replace their lovely As and Bs with balloon-like Cs and Ds. The culture may choose to glorify a large chest, to teach us that naturally voluptuous women are the DNA-victors or that beauty can be found through artificial means, but it is up to women alone to push past the blitz of distractions and learn to embrace the tits we’ve been dealt.
I want all women to celebrate their bodies, to think long and hard before deciding to surgically alter themselves. To all my fellow A-cup brethren out there who are considering the knife, let what I have written marinate a bit before making your decision. And if the aforementioned reasons don’t convince you, Google “Tori Spelling’s boobs” – the images alone should be enough to scare you straight.
