Tig Ole Bitties

I used to be very self-conscious about my breasts. I always felt they were too small and that I could never truly feel "sexy." Around the puberty years, I compared myself to all the girls around me who were quite clearly developing. I still felt like a kid with my barely A's. Chalking it up to science didn't help. Both my mother and my paternal grandmother have huge boobs. Not just commendable--but huge. Argh. 

I would hoist myself into push-up bras, slap NuBra or more apt, chicken filet, boobs on, and then tighten the straps to the point of practically having the bra pulled up to my neck. Then, and only then, did I feel good about my boobs. Never mind the not being able to breathe part, or living in constant fear that the sticky boobs under my bikini top would unstick and swim away like a true Chicken of the Sea. 

Only in the past six months have I gradually started to own my (on a good day) 34Bs. Perhaps because fashion has changed, or perhaps because I've truly changed (who knows), I now regularly do what I until recently would have never dreamed of doing: venture out in public without a bra. 

Seriously, if you were to ask me a year ago about girls going bra-less, I would say, "Those girls seem really confident. Good for them. But I think it's gross. I think it looks weird. And I would NEVER feel comfortable doing that myself." I was the kind of girl who would wear a bra at sleepovers because I felt so weird about the natural shape of breasts--if that gives you any idea of how anti-boobmando or anti-commandoob (boob+commando) I was. 

I vividly remember the first night I went out without a bra on. How sad (or happy?) is that? As with most turning-a-new leaf moments, I was empowered by my best friend, Sarah. (She has big boobs I've envied since we were in middle school, by the way.) Bra-less in a maroon body-con dress, I stiffly and self-consciously conversed over sushi with Sarah and two other girlfriends. I still felt slightly exposed and self-aware at the Bungalow in Santa Monica later that evening, but perhaps a glass of sangria or two in, I started to care less and ended up having a great time--just as if I was wearing a bra!

And then, you won't believe this, but I'll go ahead and tell you anyway--I got home. Safe and sound. Alive. No public shaming. No boys' laughter ringing in my ears. All of my deeply rooted fears unfulfilled and in hindsight, quite silly. 

Now, I still have moments where I think it'd be nice to have bigger breasts. At a friend's birthday party last month, I met a girl who had recently gotten a boob job with "gummy bear" implants. I'll be the first to admit that they looked great. Fake, but great. Alll in all, though, I'm much happier now with my breasts and my body than I've ever been.  

Yes, Lil Jon, I agree that "we all like to see tig ole bitties" but at the end of the day, I can attest that tig oles or not, it's still 100% possible to have a f*cking great time getting low to both the window and the wall.