When I was 13 years old, I wished for the same thing most flat-chested teenage girls wish for: Boobs.
Boobs that were perfectly round and perky. Ones you’d see on blonde girls in red swimsuits as they ran down beaches in slow motion. Boobs that would bounce, jiggle, and give you the womanly figure that all men apparently desired.
And apart from wishing for a boyfriend that looked like one of the members of One Direction, all I wanted in life was to have big boobs.
And as I got older, I learned why people throw around that classic saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’
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By 14, I had developed full C-cups. I had the biggest boobs out of all my friends who envied my struggles of having to change into a sports bra in Year 8 P.E. and going bra shopping with my mum. My boobs were like two little oranges. Perky, petite and zesty.
The following year my oranges had turned into mangoes. I threw away my push-up bras and traded them in for under-wired brassieres to support my ample D-cups. In Year 9, a boy got the privilege of being the first person to touch my boobs behind the local aquatic centre. He thoughtfully pointed out that his last girlfriend had ‘only been a B-cup’ and my boobs were the ‘biggest he’d ever felt’. I was the luckiest girl in the world.
Until I turned 16. My ripe mangoes had morphed into saggy melons. I learned that bra manufacturers must have run out of colourful dye when making bras larger than an E-cup. Bras in my size came in three colours. Beige, black, and a slightly lighter shade of beige.
Whilst all my girlfriends were buying hot pink bralettes in Supré, I bought ridiculously overpriced supportive bras in the ‘Fuller Bust’ section in David Jones, browsing alongside women the same age as my grandmother.