Had the stars aligned differently, I would have been a leggy 5’10 with a flat stomach, perky, large breasts, thick, wavy, dark hair and big blue eyes. And by stars aligned, I mean the genetic shitshow that was my embryonic mitosis would have needed to pick the best from the colliding gene pools, not just stood by and let the uglies battle the pretties until there was compromise.
Both of my parents have some gems in the gene pool. On my dad’s side, there is thick hair, coveted eye color, Hooters worthy racks, legs for miles and calves that make rugby teams pea green with envy. On my mother’s side there is petite bone structure, flat stomachs and a some weird phenomenon that keeps the women from wrinkling. (Eventually we do “melt” a little, but there is none of that crepe paper creasing.)
But there is also the dark side.
When the Carsey side puts on weight (that’d be my dad’s side), we put it on from the pelvic bone up. Eventually, and at family reunions especially, it’s like a gathering of ping pong balls running around on toothpicks. For a lucky few, it’s more like an Idaho potato on stilts… And there’s the invisible chin. It’s a like a ninja. You know it’s there, but you can never see it.
As for mom’s side, there is a genetic mutation that actually erases calves from the body. It’s a miracle that we can even walk or climb stairs because there is no support from the heel to the knee. There is also The Nose. Many a woman has married into the family only to realize that her off spring run the risk of getting The Nose. It’s enough to scare you into not having children at all. And, of course, The Nose wouldn’t be complete were it not for The Brows. Like two obese caterpillars desperate to meet on the Bridge.
The good news is that it’s possible to get the good stuff. Theoretically, I could have been the aforementioned dish. The bad news is that it’s possible not to get the good stuff.
But that’s not what this is about.
I got breasts the size of black heads and hair that Locks for Love doesn’t even want. My mother offered to get my little brother a chin implant after he got his braces off because even she couldn’t find the ninja chin. (On her very own child!) What could have been two Adonises and an Athena turned out to be Chinless, Calfless, and The Nose. My whole life I’ve been glad that I didn’t have a sister because the thought of having one child who won the genetic lottery would have been too much to bear. My brothers and I get along because it’s understood that at the end of the day, none of us is really winning the race.
Fortunately, I finally realized around age 20 that things weren’t going to change. I cast off my Victoria’s Secret lies for comfy sleeper bras and stopped trying to show off an asset I didn’t have. I eventually found a hair dresser who told me honestly that my hair was terrible and cut it so that it could at least live a life of dignity. (Debatable, but still.) My parents were kind enough (merciful) enough to trim the nose by about a third so that at least no one confused me with an Orthodox Jew. (Don’t get me wrong, love the Jews.)
An so began my life of (semi) acceptance. Sure, there are times that I lament the fact that I don’t look like a prom queen or that bathing suits aren’t accented by an ample bosom, but it is what it is. Eventually, actually, I began to enjoy my small breastedness. My style revolves around my itty bitty titty so much so that of all the plastic surgeries I could have, breast augmentation wouldn’t be one of them.
So imagine my surprise when suddenly my breasts began to show some enthusiasm for growth. Not two days into birth control and they felt like they’d been beaten with mallets. By the end of the first week I’d taken to moaning out in pain and accidentally cupping them during meetings and client presentations. My demure sleeper bras suddenly looked like lewd underaged porn lingerie, breast bursting forth. To make matters worse, I couldn’t accept them as my own. They were an alien appendage, ruining my personal style and inflicting pain into normal activities.
I’d (as unsexually as humanly possible) had the hubs assess them. I wasn’t crazy, right? They were taking over. (Relatively speaking, of course. It’s not like I’m knocking people over with my knockers…) No, no, he assured me. They were really coming into their own.
Since that time, my new breasts have given me a whole new perspective. I suddenly understand the sports bra and it’s purpose. No longer it enough to have some cotton pullover number from GAP. I need something to keep those bitches in place. Otherwise? No jumping rope. No jogging. No quick movements of any kind. None. I’m practically an invalid.
Today before my yoga practice, I pointed out my new tatas to my yoga instructor. See? Do you see? THEY ARE TAKING OVER! Turns out, he had noticed. (A GAY MAN NOTICED MY NEW BREASTS.) He even suggested that I take caution doing handstand, as I’d passed into the danger zone. A zone that is only open to women whose breasts may, if not tended to, fall out in handstand.
I was outraged. It was one thing to take away jump roping. Another to strip me of my lesbian chic style. But to fuck with my yoga practice?
I understand that many girls dream of bigger breasts. They want ample apples so that they will be desirable to young boys and perverts, but I want my girls back. The ones that we’re related to the Ninja Chin. I want to know they are there, but just never see them.
Is that asking too much?