As a young child, I was under the impression that when female humans reached adulthood, they were endowed with boobs. It was a categorical endowment: all boobs were created equal. I can only assume this came from a lack of fixation on them, or perhaps an inability to adequately compare and contrast different sets (even within my own extended family, there is quite a variety in terms of asset allocation). I was aware -- at least peripherally -- that women who were overweight were also heftier on top, but I concluded that each had received her intended allotment and then distributed an insulating layer equitably about her entire frame.
The categorial boobs illusion didn't persist into adolescence, but I was disappointed anyway. My mom claims she's still waiting for hers, or sometimes that her sister stood in line twice and that's why she missed out. When I was about ten years old, she asked me if I wanted to go shopping for bras, and I was horrified. If I were to show up at school in a bra, the other kids would think I thought I had boobs! I was all knees and elbows, and a head taller than 98% of my classmates (no, seriously, I'm not exaggerating at all), and definitely had no need for supportive underwear. But, wait! The other girls were starting to wear bras. Clearly this was some sort of requirement. I predicted a situation like the one at the choir concert where S & B were talking about shaving legs and she made fun of him for not knowing that girls shave in an upward motion, not a downward motion. Seriously, who doesn't know that? Oh, my god, I didn't know that! Obviously I should've started shaving my legs long ago! (To this day, I have such fine blonde hair on my legs that no one can tell if I've shaved them or not except in direct sunlight.) So, clearly, I need to start wearing a bra in case there are things only bra-wearers know about bra-wearing. Mom brought home some training bras and I started test-driving. I had very rigid criteria: no part of the bra must be perceivable through or around my shirt, so that no one would suspect that I was wearing one, and therefore conclude that I thought I had boobs. Spaghetti strap tank tops were definitely out, as were white t-shirts, since I wasn't aware of the nude-colored bra strategy for concealment. See, there are things only bra-wearers know about bra-wearing!
My mother apparently interpreted my fear of discovery as modesty. Later in my teenage years -- after I developed something approaching a bustline -- she ruefully remembered my elementary-school chastity. By that point, I couldn't figure out what was such a big deal about visible bra straps. I wasn't parading around the "secret" parts of my lingerie, it was just that spaghetti strap tank tops were so very fantastic. Besides, let's examine the work-arounds: 1) strapless bras: those bitches do not stay put no matter what size bust a girl's sporting, 2) pins: are likely to produce injury, complicate wardrobe changes, and only hide the portion of the strap directly adjacent to the pin, 3) shiny clear plastic straps that actually attract attention to one's effort to hide her functional undergarment from view.
I spent an anxious few years waiting for my boobs to make their appearance. I even bought a padded bikini top one year, which boosted my poolside confidence but became a spongy dripping mess in the water. Eventually I realized there are many benefits to being small-busted: sports are less painful, lingerie costs a smaller fortune, cute clothes fit better, archery and billiards shots are more easily executed, and interlocutors maintain better eye contact. I still, however, sometimes have trouble signalling the bartender, and I'm obligated to store my cell phone and currency in my pocket. That seems appropriate, anyway, especially given what I hear about cleavage sweat.
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