The Word of the Lord
Boobageddon
My tweenage nightmare
I remember the day I realized I was destined to have big boobs.
I was 12, and my parents were hosting a gathering for some holi-birth-feast day or another. I found myself in the eye of the storm, surrounded by yell-talking aunts, uncles and grandparents, running and shrieking little cousins, and plenty of raging pre-pubescent hormones.
12 is — or at least, was — a godawful year for any child socialized in a public middle school. One would flounder about the halls of a musty building, navigating their humanhood in a swarm of stinky, non-deodorized armpits, rollercoaster-ing emotions and hormones, boobs and pubes growing in, and the taboo acquisition of new bodily functions. It was a minefield of bully magnets, or at the very least, doses of the limelight, and I wanted no part of it.
I preferred to be imperceptible.
I wore baggy clothing and no makeup. I avoided anything that would show anyone that I had a body or any features upon it. I waited for the bathrooms to empty out before unwrapping my pads as slowly and quietly as humanly possible.
I took note of the features the other tween girls were idolizing in Teen Beat and People Mag, and I prayed every night for exactly the opposite.
I needed to make it through puberty as nonexistent as possible. Anything that would draw any attention to me was a detriment to my existence.
As hard as I fought, it was that holi-birth-feast day while perched at my parents’ kitchen counter on which I had a cinematic, horrific epiphany.
My eyes hyper-focused on my loving grandmother, who, respectfully, had the largest knockers to torso ratio I had ever seen. How was that even evolutionarily beneficial?
I found my eyes next shifting to my mom and her sister, loudly conversing across the counter from me, but I don’t recall what about. I was too fixated in horror on the size of the boobs they had to carry on the daily.
The nightmare was not over.
My eyes flashed to each set of boobs in the kitchen, growing wider with fear and realization with each pair of breasts I gazed upon.
There was no shortage of boobage in this family, to say the least.
Both sides sported ample rackage. The odds were certainly not looking good for me. I had to do whatever was in my power to prevent the inevitable doom I was facing.
I was raised Catholic, so I turned to my only hope — praying to God. I began pleading nightly that I would not have big boobs.
“Dear God, please, just give me like, a normal amount of boob. Small ones would be even better. I honestly would take anything but a big pair. I don’t want to be picky at all, my only request is that they not be big. I know that genetically this doesn’t rule in my favor, but if there’s a recessive small boob gene, please let that work for me. Also would love world peace and for my family and friends to be safe and healthy. Thanks, you a real one!
Amen. Love, Sara”.
It went something like that, every night that I remembered to pray. When my boobs started to grow, I furiously wished and hoped and prayed that they would stop. When they continued to grow, I desperately begged them to calm down. They are big enough. I was good.
Thank you so much! But I don’t need anymore! I’d say to them.
My friends were wearing pushup bras and fitted layered tank tops and Hollister tees, while I was wearing sports bras and baggier-than-ever-before boys’ tees and stealing my brother’s basketball shorts to conceal my newly grown curves.
On a basis more regular than I would have liked it to be, a friend would stop me in the halls or shout across the locker room saying, “ohmygod Sara! Your boobs are getting so big! Why don’t you show them off more?” to which I would respond by attempting to disappear.
And on special occasions, to my deepest dismay, a cool popular girl from school would catch wind of the shape of my body when she noticed me in dressy clothes and obviously had to announce her observation.
She would make the world stop turning, calling every eye in the vicinity to my appearance and body. The alarms would blare, SARA ZADRIMA IS IN A DRESS! STOP THE PRESSES! REPRINT THE PAPERS! Check out those BOOBS! and I would slowly die a painful little death for each radar that had perceived me.
To this day, I plead with the universe, my body, and all the powers-that-be to stop adding to my boobage. I’ve got plenty. I do not need more. Please move along to the next boobage-seeker, as these boobs are full to capacity, thank you!
And yet the boobs remain, and continue to state their presence when I try on clothes, go to the beach, have to wear something fancy, try to button or zip anything up over them, need a sports bra, walk around all day, try to sleep comfortably, and pretty much all the time. They’re very loud.
I’ve tried to pawn some boob off onto my friends who desire more boobage since I’ve got plenty to spare, but I’ve been told that “scientifically it’s not possible”. I don’t see anyone giving it a try!
Until they decide that I can donate spare boobage, I have decided to work with my boobs instead of against them. You know, since that guy in the sky left me hanging or decided this would be my hero’s journey.
I’ve discovered methods like fashion tape to keep buttons fastened, heavy duty sports bras or compression tops that make them feel more bearable to carry around when I have a lot of moving to do, chaffing sticks for the inevitable friction, swimsuits for huge racks, and cropping oversized tees so I get a good circumference and the right length every time. You gotta get crafty when your body is working against you.
Tween Sara might be mortified at how I sometimes leave the house in clothing that suggests there is more to the silhouette of my body than the head-floating-over-a-potato-sack vibe that we used to go for. But I also think she’d be proud that I can walk with my shoulders back and chest out without reflexively crossing my arms over my chest in fear.
When it comes to big boobs, it’s the little wins that count.
Want more Breast Stories? The following articles also feature Breast Story writer and Breast Story Artist in Residency, Sara Zadrima.
