Me Talk Titty One Day

I’m fat.

I am actually quite fat.

I’m fat pretty much everywhere, from the top of my big old Charlie Brown head to the bottoms of my Fred Flintstone feet. Fat everywhere except for two places.

Here, and here.

If I had to pick any two places on my body to be medium or even just a little undersized, it definitely would not have been in the tits.

But as a fat girl I thought, like other fat girls, that I actually had big tits.

I didn’t know my boobs were only sorta medium sized until a few years ago, when I was hanging out at home with a few friends. There were four of us, three women and a dude, my friend D.

D was looking around the room, peering at us while we smoked and flipped through fashion magazines, a look of glee on his face, and exclaimed that he was happy to be in a room of big breasted women. Considering D’’s favorite word was and always will be “Boobies!” I wasn’t surprised but it was still kind of weird.

The three of ladies looked at each other, shrugged, then told him to kindly shut the fuck up before resuming smoking cigarettes and reading fashion magazines.

But then I snuck an admiring peek at my chest, squeezed my tits together with arms, like they were high-fiving each other. I could almost hear them saying “I say old man, splendid going there!” “Thank you sir! Couldn’t have managed it without you!”

High fives all around.

But over time I’ve come to see that I’m not big breasted so much as I have enough body fat to sort of propel my tits up so that it looks like they’re bigger than they are. This wouldn’t be a problem except when it comes to bra shopping.

Even those “plus size” bras made for fat bitches like myself tend to think of a 42D as round, ample melons that are symbols of fertility and body positivity blah blah blah. A picture of a tattooed lady with dyed red hair and an hourglass figure tattooed with bluebirds and Mexican sugar skulls posing in a vintage-style bathing suit on ModCloth.com comes to mind.

But my boobs are shaped more like soufflés that didn’t rise quite right. They’re what a long-ago acquaintance would have described as “70’s boobs”, sorta bouncy if not super perky. They seem better suited for a disco era silk jersey Halston gown, a dress that I pray I could one day pull off without looking like a balloon covered with a dinner napkin.

I find myself trying not to pose too much in pictures but sitting is out because I tend to think I look like Jabba The Hutt only with much nicer boobs.

If the ideal breasts were the Hostess Snowballs that come two to a package, in various colors to match the season, then mine would be more like stale Ding Dongs you get from the day old bakery.

If the ideal breast were a perfect sphere of red jell-0, mine would be like the broken lumpy blocks of orange gelatin at this awful buffet on Belmont and Kimball that I can’t stop eating at.

Why do I keep talking about food when I talk about my breasts?

I’m not sure if it wouldn’t be to important to me to have big boobs if I wasn’t fat in the first place.

Like I think it would be rad if I could shift my fat around so I can have bigger boobs for, like, the length of a cocktail party, and then deflate them if I have to walk through Wrigleyville on a Saturday night.

And also maybe move some of that fat to my flat Asian ass so I wouldn’t be so uncomfortable sitting for more than a few hours at a time.

When I was in the fifth grade, certain books used to be passed around my classroom in secret. I went to a public school in New York City, and most of those places were terrible places in the 1980s. Ketchup was a vegetable, and we didn’t have a real music teacher, just a substitute whose lesson plan consisted of playing the Dirty Dancing soundtrack every day while we sang along. We had a library but we weren’t allowed to borrow any of the books.

One of the books that made it’s way around the room was Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I think if you are a woman of a certain age such as myself, which is older than 30 and younger than, well, Judy Blume, you can’t really think about or talk about your boobs until you have talked about this book.

If you have not read this book, let me fill you in on what you missed while you were growing up in a cave or whatever.

Margaret is an only child who, at the age of eleven, moves from New York City to suburban New Jersey. Eager to make new friends, she forms a secret club, The Pre-Teen Sensations, which is literally the greatest name for a club anywhere any time in the history of pre-teens, boobs, young adult literature, and the world in general.

The club has rules, one of which is they have to wear a bra, something for which they check at every meeting. Every meeting is punctuated by an exercise, which consists of the girls pumping their arms back and forth, shouting:

I Must! I Must! I Must Increase My Bust!

I MUST! I MUST! I MUST INCREASE MY BUST!

The only exercise I’ve ever done throughout my life was this one, in the privacy of my bedroom or the bathroom when I was growing up. It never occurred to me to form my own version of the Pre-Teen Sensations when I was eleven. The other girls in my class kept their distance and anyway they seemed too busy with Chinese school to come to my house for quarter waters and furtive bust exercises in my crowded apartment.

I had a brief flirtation with floor hockey in high school. I sometimes think about doing free yoga in Millennium Park. But I prefer to sleep in, ideally after consuming many tacos in bed, and I believe that my body is an accurate reflection of that.

But the thrusting, the “musting” of my bust into existence, is a habit I cannot give up. Just like reading Judy Blume books in my room at night, or forming not-so-secret clubs of best friends, friends whose boobs come in all shapes and sizes. Like snowflakes. Or animal crackers

I know the exercises probably had nothing to do with the tits I have today. What I got has as much to do with genetics as much as the precisely engineered bras from a variety of French, Belgian, and German manufacturers that I enjoy buying and wearing today. But the thrusting, it’s fun, it’s hilarious, and a reminder that taking care of my body and caring for myself can take many forms.

Back straight.

Chest out.

Arms bent.

Deep breath… and go.

I Must! I Must! I Must Increase My Bust!

This essay is as written for Miss Spoken, a Chicago live lit series co-founded and co-produced by Carly Oishi and Rosamund Lannin, on Wednesday, May 28, 2014 at The Gallery Cabaret.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under health, humor, personal

One response to “Me Talk Titty One Day

  1. Pingback: Did you miss last week’s show? | Miss Spoken

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s