Someone once jokingly asked when I’ll write my autobiography. Ehm. The answer to that is probably never, since really I think only the great on this earth are really meant to do that. Like the Ghandi’s and Einstein’s and Mandela’s and the inventors of coffee, alcohol and birth control.
Since it is Breast Cancer Awareness month, I’ll do it. But not about me! Because unlike me, my boobs were once the great on the earth, and they deserve a biography.
And so it begins.
The early years
Every biography must begin somewhere, preferably at birth. But were my breasts ever born? (were yours?) What I do know is that they slowly arose in my early teens or in modern terms: tweens. I was about 10 and not yet in my final year of what we call basisschool (I guess in English it would be middle school) when they transferred from total flats to weird hills stuck on my chest making those weird things they call nipples stick out. As I was so young, they were the first boobs to grow in my class and I suspect the last ones to stop growing. This was fine when I could hide them, but I had to face reality here: at age 11 my mom took me to a #whisper bra store #whisper for my first bra. I wish I still had it. But probably threw it on the stage of a childhood celebrity crush at some early 90s concert.
OK not really. But if I could go back in time, I would throw my bra on stage.
The beginnings of my rack, tucked away in the new crème white cute bra, I stared at them for hours in the mirror of my bedroom. Me. A. Bra. I. Am. A. WOMAN.
And off to school I went the next day. The bra safe under my clothes, I felt secretly proud of my new accessories but knew very well I should keep it a secret.
But alas, the embarrassing moment had to come. Climbing on a climbing frame at gym, the back of my bra (white) could be seen through my t-shirt (white). (hey, it was before my black light disco era and I wasn’t aware of the white under white dress fail yet, give me a break, I was 11!).
I had just climbed onto the top bar of the ladder, balancing to climb over it, when I heard a very loud “NADINE HAS A BRAAAAAAAAA!”. Hanging on the top bar of the ladder I cringed when I looked down saw the boy who screamed it pointing up. Other kids looked up as I suspect it was weird to see someone else but your mom in a bra.
I was not embarrassed at all, but let’s move on.
Let’s not talk about the rise of pubic hair, shall we.
The rise of the rack
In the years after they grew and grew. And grew and grew. And grew some more. By the time I was 16 the rack was about size DD and sometimes E and it baffled me every time I tried to buy a new pair of bras. Not at the usual lingerie shops, but my size could only be found at exclusive stores that cost my mom and dad their vacations. But good bras are an investment. Right.
I didn’t realize until writing this biography that the combination of the rack with my small waist was quite photogenic and I could have probably earned my parents all the bra money back.
But I digress.
Where was I?
The boobs felt appreciated by the male population. It was hard to pretend I didn’t see the eyes male conversation partners drop to nipple height. Then again, they weren’t looking at my eyes so pretending wasn’t necessary. I don’t think many of the words I said actually mattered either.
And then I got pregnant
The best and the worst thing you can do to your boobs: get pregnant. I didn’t think it was possible but they grew even more. Really, I felt embarrassed. I have owned a size F. I had to shop for bras in the effin camping department to find me one that had size TENT. It wasn’t possible to see the 9 month belly from above because of the GIANTS. OK, I may exaggerate a little, but really.
The decline: the end of an era.
Boobs come in handy when you have a baby, you know. Boobs feeds them. REALLY. Baby’s survive on it. But every thing sensual or sexual about your breasts fades when you’re in the breastfeed era of live. And I did it 3 times. That’s 3 years of breastfeeding. And to be honest, ones proud and perky, they kinda… lost their glamour.
But there’s light!
They will probably never be the size they once were. And frankly I am grateful for that, weightlifting is nice but not 24/7. But they kinda got their glamour back since I stopped feeding Madison over 1,5 years ago.
And like wearing my first bra all those years ago, I still look at them in the mirror. And smile. I love my boobs. Really, what’s not to love. Who doesn’t love boobies?
And that’s why I’ll donate to BCAction through Boobiethon.a national grassroots education and advocacy organization working to end the breast cancer epidemic.
Boobiethon and I go waaaaaaay back. The original Boobiethon was created 10 years ago. Hundreds of women posted photos of their boobs on the website. They collected THOUSANDS of dollars for cancer research and in its second year I was brave enough to (anonymously) share my photos. Sharing boobies for a cause!
My message? Love your boobies!
And to conclude this boobography: they (the boobs) live happily ever after and I hope I never have to write a part two of this biography that doesn’t have a happy ending.