Growing Up in the Huge Category

My mother is Huge.
My grandmother is Huge.
Betsy Sheetz is Huge.
I am Huge.
I am in the Huge Breast Category.

I love my breasts. They've been big since fourth grade. I thought I was just fat but, my best friend's brother told me it wasnt' fat - it was breasts and that I had nice ones. But, he also advised me, I needed to get myself a training bra because it looked like I had a mountain on top of a mountain underneath my dance leotard. he was gay - but he still liked my breasts.

I Junior High, Betsy Sheetz and I were all the rage. We had the biggest ones in the school - even bigger than the ninth graders. We were instantly popular with the boys - which just angered the girls. So, we got categorized as the 'sluts'. I'd never even kissed a boy. But, I was a slut because I had Huge Breasts. It didn't matter, though. I was thick skinned. My breasts stood between me and the onslaught oto my reputation - absorbing their pre-teen bitterness like a bullet-proof.....breast.

I never understood the fascination myself. I wanted to be a runner but, my breats protested and twisted me into submission. Demanding that I adhere to the persona that comes with being in the Huge Breast Category, I became a majorette - forsaking the Athletic category. Breasts are jealous that way.

Rebel that I am, I took up hiking, camping, skiing and canoeing. My breasts, locked in perpetual uni-boob pose,reluctantly indulged my athletic aspirations under constraining sports bras. I live in perpetual jealousy of the flat-chested granola girls I hike with. In hiking, the weight of the pack is crucial. Invariably, as I trudge the last few miles of the trail my mind wanders to the extra three punds of boobage I'm forced to carry with me.

But! the men! My God! Like Homer and donuts, the men are mesmerized! It's a phenomena, really. If I could have detached my breasts from my shoulders and left them on a bar stool in Baltimore I'm sure the men would be standing there still....talking to them.

20 Years

My breasts - the enemies I carry with me every day.

I've got another twenty years or so with these forward-facing appendages - time enough to suckle babies, I hope; time enough to lure their future father into my lair, I pray.

It will start small - the little lump that tells me the enemy has aw0ken.

Our feud goes back generations. This is the same foe that killed my grandmother and scarred my mother.

Maybe in another ten years, when I have my own family to live for - a child for whom to set an example - maybe then I will actually get serious about my 'monthly' self exams. Ten years - that will give me ten years of practice before C-Day, right?

Of course, I'm really hoping for a cure, hoping that I'll never have to get serious about my sleeping enemy. That's why I don't do monthly breast exams - it would be like losing faith.

What I really need to get serious about is finding a man - one who will love me boobless. You know, a leg man.

--Abigail Davis