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Mine Are Too Big

One day, after six years, I showed my therapist my breasts. I didn’t take my shirt off, but I did pull it really tight so it was as if. My shrink was shocked. Well, I think she was. Hard to tell—though she did give me a dollar. (She’ll want to analyze that joke for a decade.)

I dress to hide my rack. I don’t wrap my chest à la Boys Don’t Cry, but I wear big shirts and jackets and minimizer bras, and I never show cleavage. I’d rather look hefty than busty, which is crazy because I live in a town that worships the thin and the well endowed. But I opt for fat and flat. Maybe I think it’s Opposite Day.

The truth is, I feel the most comfortable when I appear to have no figure. No hips or tits. Especially when doing stand-up. I don’t want to be a prop comic; I want you to listen to me. So I want to look like a sprite. A pixie. Without curves. That way no woman will be envious and no man will be lascivious. Maybe I should have gone into radio.

On my 40th birthday I had a mammogram, and the technician said I needed a bigger cup—the wire was carving into my flesh. I could no longer deny that “the girls” were growing up, too. I took my birthday money and bought new bras (instead of a bicycle).

That was ten years ago, and since then I’ve grown two more sizes. Camouflaging my chest gets harder. For a while I considered breast-reduction surgery. Every woman I talked to who’d had it loved it. In fact, most of them said, “I wish I had done it sooner!” Some of them offered to show me and, wow: perky!

But I will never get my breasts reduced because: (A) Knives, surgery, scared. I don’t even like shaving. (B) I’d be the one woman who regretted it. (C) The procedure costs $2,000 to $10,000—per tit! (D) My husband thinks I’m perfect as is. (DD) What if it became an addiction and I got more and more of my body reduced and ended up on Intervention? And finally (DDD) While I was writing this piece, I had an epiphany. It would be a relief to give up the illusion of being something I’m not and give in to the reality of who I am—a buxom woman who is reluctant to flaunt it but who might just let herself be her actual size.

Photograph courtesy Shutterstock

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