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All About My Boobs |
by Nidzara Pecenkovic
The best thing about not having boobs is that I don't like bras. They look great on Brazilian models and I have a few lacy, gel filled, push-up numbers in my sock drawer—but I don't like them on. They are tight and the newest ones have criss-crossed straps across my back that dig into the skin under my shoulder blades. I love being able to wear boys' t-shirts and feeling the air circling over my body and tickling my skin, prickly with goose bumps and fine hairs standing on end.
Most of the time I like to tell myself that I don't care. I'm a well-adjusted and complete woman with dreams and goals and direction. But this is how I see it—boobs are always a plus.
I've always strived for the whole package: personality, looks, I.Q....I listen to Bach while doing Sudoku. I squeeze my butt cheeks and hold for fifteen seconds while reading up on politics. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...Release and repeat. I've been an athlete—swimming, ice skating, soccer, dancing, cheerleading...I've been a leader—club president, mentor, honor student. I've traveled, I've ordered ice-cream in French and overpaid in Pesos for a carved wood turtle. I've practiced pilates and kickboxing and taught yoga to kids. I've modeled—I've even done a swimsuit calendar. I'm gutsy—I started my habit of asking boys out at thirteen. But no matter what I do or how hard I try, I just can't seem to grow a pair of boobs.
It's not that I'm flat as a board. There is something going on there, but it just does not seem to match up with the world's idea of chest size. Even the small lacy tops at Bebe leave a bubble of air between me and the itchy fabric. I never even feel that my breasts are there unless I'm running down the stairs of my apartment building in one of those t-shirts with flimsy fabric and my excessive galloping just happens to cause some bouncing. And it's only when I'm taking out the trash or getting the mail do I absentmindedly step out into the world braless, practically naked and free.
Other than that, my breasts are pressed into each other by gel-filled push-up bras with scientific names and complicated straps. My hand-made cleavage shines under layers of bronzer and shimmer, strategically placed down the middle of my chest that looks more like a baby's behind than something out of a Victoria‘s Secret catalog. Out in the world my breasts are always squished underneath pocket sized pillows.
I could summon pity to myself with stories of silicone-infested Hollywood and unrealistic expectations for today's women—but there are plenty of small chested women out there. Keira Knightley and Kate Hudson often showcase their ribcages protruding through their chests in overpriced designer dresses. But the only thing standing between these girls and a feminine chest is five or so pounds.
I guess I could also gain some weight in order to boost up my boobs—but weight is a whole other issue for me so I don't even consider that an option.
Breast implants are not an option either. First of all, I don't have that kind of money to put myself through grad school, let alone inflate my chest. And I'm not afraid of surgery. Thanks to television and the Internet I've seen so many breast augmentation procedures that I could assist in one. It's just that, while watching such clips, I cannot get over how the human body is treated. I see the numb and motionless body on that surgical table—what was minutes before an alive and bubbly person—and how that scalpel glides down the skin—just like scissors across construction paper. The doctor pulls on the skin like it's plastic wrap and pushes in the implants like a child trying to squeeze a cube into a circle opening on a pegboard, and it makes me sad. It's not the earth girl in me that recycles paper by always using the back side that winces at such cruel treatment of the human body. It's just that something inside of me opens up that faucet of sadness that I experience when I watch Feed the Children infomercials or get caught up in nostalgia over pre-war Yugoslavia. And yet I just can't let it all go—take my small breasts and move on.
The reason that I am so obsessed with breasts is because, in some weird, dumb way, I feel incomplete without them. It's as if fifty percent of the world's population is in on some great secret while I'm cleaning my ears with Q-tips and can't hear. As if all of my friends are at some great party and I, uninvited, am sitting on the couch licking my Nutella-dipped fingers and watching reality television.
Last summer, I was strolling down the blocked off main street in Salt Lake City—just browsing through booths of arts and crafts and Dippin-Dots ice-cream—when I saw a girl in a skin-tight, steel-colored tube top that was barely hanging on her pre-teen-sized breasts. She was in her early twenties, probably a few years older than me, boobless, exposed, and she looked fabulous. It's not that all of a sudden small breasts became much more desirable than the ample cleavage of a Sports Illustrated model—but the way that she carried herself caught my attention and made me envious. The only thing that I've ever wanted more than the experience of ample cleavage is full and complete self confidence.
So on a certain Saturday I woke up and decided not to even take out my pushup bra from its comfortable spot next to my socks. It was harder getting dressed since I had to plan for looser clothing and shrinking self-confidence. I couldn't wear anything ultra feminine nor at all revealing. It had to be something slightly tomboyish or grunge so that I looked like I purposefully went around braless. Anything frilly would just be painfully too close to my seventh grade self. I picked out a black-and-white knitted top that easily slipped off my shoulders and clung to my rib cage. It was an unusually chilly weekend in Southern California and since I'm not a fan of I-am-happy-to-see-you nipples, I insulated my chest with a tank underneath.
Even before walking out of the door, I felt naked, and I guess I was in a sense. I felt that I needed to compensate for what was absent and fluffed up my hair, teasing it at the roots. Then I dug out a bright red lipstick that I had never worn before—it must have belonged to my mom—and slathered it on. Once. Twice. And then one more time. Looking like a drag queen, I was finally ready to go.
Walking into Olive Garden I made a point of taking off all of my layers. My coat, my sweater, and then the scarf—it all came off. The hostess seated my boyfriend and me in a corner and I silently grieved that I would not be able to show off my braless self. Our waiter was male but he was too busy being pissed that we had walked in twenty minutes before closing and no matter how I angled my shoulders, turning first this way and then the other way, he did not even glance at me. He must have been gay.
Though one part of me felt like a preteen changing in front of others in the locker room, another was hoping for male eyes to flock to my small, yet clearly outlined chest. I bit into my breadstick and though about that episode of “Sex and the City” when Samantha slips rubber nipples under the front of her dress. I guess I was disappointed.
The next day I loudly announced that that it was day two of my experiment which by now was nicknamed “Operation Boobs.” My boyfriend readily sprung for the camera offering his services to document it all. Yeah, right. Feeling braver and more desperate for a reaction I put on a thin and tight cotton shirt. No make up this time and flat hair will just have to do.
Driving up to LA I didn't think about my lack of undergarments. Overpaying for my compact parking spot and squeezing down a urine-stained stairwell, I still did not pay attention to it. The wind rolling over the ocean and slapping the palm trees on Venice Beach sliced through my bones and I had to put on a jacket. Though it was cold, I left it unzipped.
Making my way through the crowd and stands selling cheap sunglasses, I started my little show. I walked by the short, muscular man in a gold thong and stopped to watch another man eat fire. I browsed through racks of bikinis and wraps. I inhaled the water and the salt and the spray paint circling in the air. There were paintings and aluminum can sculptures laid out on cut-up cardboard boxes. It smelled like jade and Argentinian empanadas and it made me gag. I almost bought a green and pink polka dot dress but I did not solicit one single look of curiosity or intrigue directed toward my chest.
I guess between the dancing hippies, the cursing homeless woman, and the swarm of pigeons boldly diving into the pale tourists from the Midwest eating greasy, 99-cent pizza—no one could or wanted to notice my deflated chest. And even if they did, I bet no one cared.
This may be the moment when I conclude, triumphantly complete and at peace with my body. Where I matter-of-factly announce: “Yeah, these are my boobs. They're not much but they're mine.” But I do not feel that way. I still thank God and Wonderbra for padded cups. I still wear my best and priciest bra when I need a little burst of confidence for an important interview or party. But when I don't feel like it, I don't wear a bra at all. That's the best thing about not having big boobs. I don't have to.
Nidzara Pecenkovic lives and teaches in Orange County, California. She writes stories inspired by Bosnia and her friends, Paul and Lyle. This piece was inspired by neither.
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