“But why don’t they grow already?” is what kept going through my mind. I remember being in 5th grade when I first started asking myself this question.
My older sister got me a red, thin blouse that you could see through in quite fine detail. I didn’t want to wear it, as I feared I would “present” myself too much to my colleagues at school and obviously I dreaded being scolded by my teachers. Avoidance is what I was best at.
I must have voiced my objections because she gave me a demeaning look and asked “What boobs?”
Honestly, did I say that? Did I?
But seeing her amused expression and perhaps sensing some pity for the little young sister who had no breasts and therefore her entire status as a girl was denied of her yet, I gave in.
I said “alright, I’ll wear it to school”. To make matters worse, my mother seemed to be a member of the same party, nodding for a silent yes when I decided to put it on for the first time. They were both right though – no breasts were showing – only two patches of darker skin on my chest, perfectly opposite to each other.
In the back of my mind, I worried I might look inappropriate, but having the two behind me, basically saying “go for it”, that’s what I did. I went for it.
My second rebellion against my newly acquired obsession for my breasts emerged when I got to school, the following day. I expected some kind of observation from someone. I almost felt disappointed for not being scolded by the teachers and not being laughed at by my peers. “The only good thing about not having breasts and wearing a transparent blouse is that no one notices the blouse is so stupidly transparent and completely out of the picture” I thought.
Third time the question popped inside my mind was in my 8th grade. By then, I resolved that things will improve. I used arguments such as “I’m too young to have breasts now”, “some girls develop later in life”, “my older sister has breasts so I probably have to reach her age to have breasts too” to keep me from losing hope.
To no avail, by the time I reached high school I dropped the whole “fully-breasted” image to define what a teenage girl is supposed to look like and I switched over to the dark side, wearing loose t-shirts, stealing my dad’s work shirts and carefully hiding my body with angst apparel. My new motto was “I don’t need breasts to be cool, I have my dad’s clothes”. Which was…cool for a while.
Slowly, without my awareness, I went from late-teen to late-twenties and I swear on my flat-chest-chiseled pec muscles I don’t know when they went. I guess time flies by fast when you’re lending your soul to all those things that don’t even feed a fraction of it. I’m not sure I was physically present or in my body during that time, but I remember slowly re-entering the land of the living when I began training and slowly getting my senses back.
I re-discovered I had a body. I learned what it could do and how far I could push it. Sometimes, I’d abuse it with lashes of hunger, exertion, lack of sleep and I’d wrap it all under “hard-noble-work”. I must confess I’m still somewhere around that neighborhood, maybe not so much at the center of it anymore.
It turns out that my body actually has a voice which tends to rebel against the behaviors I subject it to. Maybe it’s the same voice that asked, in stages: “will my breasts grow next year?”, “why won’t my breasts grow”, “I hope they grow though”, “maybe when high school is over, I will experience a miracle and they’ll get bigger”.
It’s the same voice that said “who needs breasts when you have an intellect to show off” and which later turned into “who needs breasts or intellect when you have muscles to work hard for and to show case to the world”.
My body’s speech changed throughout the years but somehow it still remained in this one-sidedness where it needs to present “the goods” to the world.
Breasts were the beginning of a long series of wishful thinking relating my body image and I sense this wish-fullness will never disappear completely. I’ve gradually learned to let go to the prospect of growing my breasts or having a smaller waist or being taller, having a smaller nose and ohhh, the list can go on.
At times, some wild ideas will explode into my consciousness and posses me so badly, that I start looking at cosmetic surgery with a different pair of eyeglasses. The more I fantasize I could actually intervene and finally “grow some breasts” the more I realize the artificial promise these newly breasts would offer: they’d fix the here and now, the nice image I would put out there into the world, but they would be unable to intervene in the past, completely handicapped in the face of old memories, where confused little girls don’t really know if they’re supposed to wear transparent blouses to school, but whom can get away with it simply because the breasts don’t belong there with her.