My friends are getting new boobs, and it’s getting right on my…
I have enormous breasts.
It wasn’t always the case, I was that lanky adolescent who was mocked for having shuttle-cock shaped nipples instead of boobs, but a bit of weight gain and a hearty dose of hormone treatment (I’ll tell you about that another day) and here I am, a 34 F – F for Fricking huge.
As they approach their mid-forties my so-called friends have started getting boob jobs – heartlessly negating my one natural physical advantage.
It’s a good job I can still make them laugh. If anyone invents a sense of humour augmentation, I bet they’ll all get that – then there’ll be no point to me at all. (Stamps feet, toddler-style).
My dearest friend is in surgery as I type. I wished her luck this morning, called her ‘my bosom buddy’ in the text, but secretly I see her operation as a betrayal.
I’m not a fan of massive mammaries. They’re inconvenient in so many ways: Clothes never hang right. You need two sports bras at once to contain the bounce. Some men can no longer see your face. If you suffer from PMS (as I do) then they become so sore it’s like wearing pressed bruises the size of melons on your chest. I could go on.
But despite the obvious and well documented downsides, I have always secretly liked the fact my friends were in awe of my hearty bosom.
I can honestly say that more women have asked to have a feel of my chest than men over the years – although they’re rarely sober at the point of request. There’s something lovely about being admired, even if it is for something you view as a natural disaster.
I live in a London suburb which could definitely be termed the Stockbroker belt, where the locals tend to be wealthy and take very good care of themselves. Most of the women I’ve met are educated and erudite, but the difference between us is that, whilst I exercise, they work out.
My plodding away on a cross-trainer whilst listening to an audio book is a world away from the sweaty training they regularly engage in. Their forty-something bodies are toned and athletic, whilst mine is just about being kept in slightly wobbly check. And whilst their physiques are standing up to the test of time, their breasts are not.
No amount of pectoral extensions (I made that up, does it sound convincing?) can stop a once-breast-feeding bosom, from drooping. If you are slim, then the breast tissue will have less fat content too. That is where I was winning, until now.
My fat content is still high enough to keep me Fricking huge (she states proudly) and my chest is a bit bigger than the rest of my frame. My friends were envious of my breasts, then, one by one, they started doing something about it.
Much as I’d like to, I can’t even pretend they’re getting breast surgery because of vanity. One friend went from a 32AA to a 32C as a fortieth birthday present to herself and she still becomes tearful when she explains how, afterwards, she felt like a woman for the first time. Self-image isn’t simply a physical issue. I imagine many more small-chested women dream of having the funds to change what they see as a flaw in themselves. Boobs can battle demons, who knew?
One of my friends popped a pair on because she had a benign lump removed, which left her with an uneven chest. The experience was traumatic, and the crater left behind was significant. She’d recently lost a lot of weight due to the stress of divorce and was feeling old and unlovable. She’s already a stunner, but after the operation she was a slim stunner with a pair of twenty-year old’s breasts. She’d had a rough time, she deserved to look in the mirror and feel good about herself.
She showed me the firm, pert pair, laughing her head off at the contrast between those and the rest of her forty-something body. She’s still smiling.
The next one was in a rut with work and wanted something to look forward to. She had them done in spring and by summer was wearing spaghetti strapped tops in the pub beer garden, whist I sweated in a strapless bra, my vast orbs held up by Atlas and his pal, both straining under the weight.
To add insult to injury, my friends are even doing it tastefully. They’re getting an uplift with a C/D cup implant at most. They will be perfectly in proportion, less likely to topple forward under the weight of their frontage than me. I almost wish they’d gone for the Katie Price, bigger is better, option. That way I could look down my nose at their foolishness. But, in truth, they’ve done it stylishly and for entirely logical reasons – which doesn’t help me at all.
I don’t know of a single woman who has undergone the operation without considering the pros and cons for months, if not years, first.
Some have come out of the operation, realising that it was a bigger procedure than they’d anticipated, worrying that they’d lose their nipples due to infected stitches and be left with disfigurement or lack of sensation because of what they guiltily term ‘their own vanity’.
Despite knowing all this, and having agreed and sympathised with their reasoning, I still have the overwhelming desire to stick out my bottom lip and mutter, ‘It’s not fair.’
They’ve taken away my one natural advantage. These days they’re the ones who are asked for a bust-feel in the night club loo, whilst I’m left jiggling like a human bouncy castle on the dance floor.
Now I’m just going to have to be the funniest, and that’s way harder than having the biggest boobs. a
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