Don’t cry for me, Dolly Parton

A woman’s love-hate relationship with her large breasts

By Charyn Pfeuffer

I remember it all too vividly. It was fifth grade. My mother gently hinted that it was time to buy my first training bra. My prepubescent breasts were rapidly expanding, as though the Ta-Ta Fairy had sprinkled InstaGrow on my once minuscule lumps. It was clearly not a hereditary trait, and I felt I’d been had by some higher power hell-bent on ruining my life before I was even old enough to drive. The growth spurt was downright mortifying, and I made every attempt to conceal my, ahem, new additions with oversized sweaters and T-shirts. Luckily, rugby shirts and sweater dresses were ’80s fashion staples and helped facilitate the great cover-up.

The actual brassiere retail event was anything but quick and painless. My mother cleverly disguised it as a “girls’ day out.” To think I was duped into this most embarrassing landmark in a young woman’s life with promises of Shirley Temples and pastel-umbrella-toothpicked tea sandwiches. The elderly saleswoman in the lingerie department instructed me to remove my top and stand in front of a tri-paneled mirror. If my bosoms appeared large before, they looked gargantuan three-fold. Internally, I agreed that something had to be done immediately to control these pesky things, but I’d never have admitted that to my mother, much less the saggy-breasted, gray-haired saleswoman. She adeptly wrapped a cold metal tape measure around my torso and it was determined that I was well beyond the training-bra phase. A B-cup, big-girl brassiere it would be. I was humiliated. I didn’t know a single soul who wore anything other than the white, all-cotton, soft-cup bra with a tiny silk bow. The experience was similar to buying condoms. It’s a purchase most people make, but whether it’s your first time or your 100th, you want the merchandise double-bagged and processed quickly.

But I appreciated the binding effect my newfound lingerie had on my physique. It kind of kept everything just so. No more bouncing in gym class. A more defined chest in a leotard. A definite reaction from young male classmates, who made their desire to grope no secret.

Years later, I gradually learned to worship my breasts, which incidentally grew to be a fine set of 36Ds. I never fully appreciated (or utilized) the almighty power of this above-the-belt anatomical feature until I accepted that they weren’t going anywhere without some major surgical procedure. Most of the time, my breasts make me feel downright womanly. They match my curvaceous, Botticelli body perfectly. If I were skinnier they wouldn’t work for my frame, so I have the ideal excuse to maintain a few extra pounds. I love having the flesh to properly fill a baby tee, to achieve voluptuous cleavage in cocktail dress with minimal effort.

But with all good things come drawbacks. I despise not being able to run long distances without experiencing neck and back pain. Large-breasted women have to try harder to gain the intellectual attention and respect of men. It’s easy for men to get caught at chest level and never see beyond the flesh. In the past, I overcompensated by trying to impress potential love interests with my intellect and wit. They’d soon see that what they actually wanted was a real girl, with a zaftig body and something to say, and they’d instantly fall — hook, line, and sinker. I’d teach them art history, re-instill their faith in mankind, and give them a reason to live. The sex would be the hottest ever and I’d come every time. And I’d rest easy, knowing that I was loved for my brain and not my breasts.

Women’s reactions to large breasts are no easy time either. The same double standard holds true: it’s not uncommon for bathroom banter to turn to “what great tits” a well-endowed woman has, followed by woeful bitching. Nor is it uncommon to receive venomous looks when you wear a shirt that may be a tad too tight. Lycra is my lifeline when it comes to tops, but it is only so forgiving. It’s as if there’s an unspoken line of sex appeal that can be obnoxiously crossed by flat-chested women (no one ever criticizes a skinny girl’s fashion), but well-endowed women are expected to keep their assets in check. It’s not as if I self-implanted mine, or even wanted them to begin with. I’m making the best of an anatomical feature that runs the gamut from ultimate accessory to source of pain and discord. Having big breasts is a part of who I am, like having brown hair or a mole on my back, whether I like it or not.

There are moments when I concoct elaborate plans to convince my health-care provider that I must have breast-reduction surgery. If I were certain that it wouldn’t interfere with breast-feeding someday, I’m sure I’d give it serious consideration. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention, but is having to lug around pounds and pounds of extra flesh really worth it? The jury has been out for years and is still deliberating. I embrace the way they make me feel about myself, but cringe at the reaction they often evoke. I think my inner qualities and beauty should speak for themselves, and judgments should not be made on physical appearances. So until I find a coalition of women to share my quest for the perfect D-cup bra that lifts and separates, I’m ignoring the lustful gazes of men and the glares of jealous and unsympathetic women.

Charyn Pfeuffer spends hundreds of dollars annually on sexy lingerie that doesn’t quite fit right. Although she has the panty part perfected, she’s still searching for the ideal bra.