04.12.17

4 || GIANT TITS

Hey dingus,

Been a few days, so I thought you could use a little something. I’ll make it more uplifting than that last letter. No lost love on this one, I promise. 

Strip off your shirt and take a look at yourself in the mirror. Those are some serious mosquito bites there on your chest. Your friend Anna already wears a training bra, but you’ve got nothing going for you. You’re working with a mean case of nine-year-old boy torso. Well, don’t you worry because that’s going to change soon.

Thanks to what you will eventually come to recognize as the world’s best and worst genetics, your boobs are going to be HUGE. In middle school it won’t be such a big deal. You’ll make it to a C cup by eighth grade, but chances are that’s just puberty giving you a little extra push. Yellow braces and a couple of baby balloons on your chest, that’s how you’re going to go out of Whitman Middle School. Why bring up the braces? Because when the orthodontist gave you a color option, you chose YELLOW. It wasn’t even pushed on you, you made that decision all by yourself and I’m never going to let you live that down. Never.

Okay, anyway. Moving on (but not really because YELLOW, Coco. Jesus christ). High school is going to roll around and your tits will get up to a D cup, but then they’ll settle. For a minute. You’re going to start taking birth control at the end of ninth grade and god damn, hold on because those D cups are going to explode right out of your shitty little Target bras and all over your chest. By the time you graduate you’ll be sporting a 32F. Not DD, DDD, EE, no it’s a fucking F cup. If you’re wondering about the ease at which you can locate F cups, the answer is it's a total bitch. In fact, you’ll spend most of your time cramming your boobs into DDD and hiding them under baggy sweatshirts and oversized flannels in the hopes nobody notices that your nipples are playing a game of peek-a-boo over the top of your bra.

Now here’s the thing about having big boobs. Guys love it, girls are generally a little bitter, and just about everybody you meet will make a point of letting you know your tits are huge as if the aching back pain and nipples the size of fucking canteloupes haven’t already made the point enough. By the time you hit tenth grade you and your boobs will be two distinctly different people. There will be “Coco” and “Coco’s boobs,” so there’s something for you to look forward to and then immediately grow tired of. Even though you’ll be 5’ 3” and 115 pounds, you’ll buy medium and large shirts and every cute top or dress you try on at Urban Outfitters will just take your ego and crush it into a little powder of shame. When you exercise you’ll wear one or two regular bras under your sports bra just for support and the sweat between where your breast hangs over your skin will definitely be covered with little brown spots that look like those sun marks on old peoples’ faces. In fact, it’s more gross than that because, surprise, it will be yeast infection!

So I guess my point here is you’ll have giant boobs and they will be a fucking nightmare. But here’s where I bring in that positive refuel. One day in eleventh grade you’re going to be running up the stairs of your house, braless, and as you look down your boobs will HIT YOU IN THE FACE. Of your 115 pounds of mass, over twelve of those pounds are breast. This will be both the point when ripping your boobs off and lighting them on fire becomes tempting, and also, more mildly, reduction starts to look like a good option. So you will go to see a plastic surgeon.

She’s going to open your gown and in less than half a second go, “Oh my god, that’s not right.” You’re going to laugh and also cry deep within because the longer these things stay on your chest the lower they’re going to sag and the more your back is going to continue feeling like someone ran over you with a tractor. After another year, much debate, recommendations from seven different doctors and a couple more visits to the surgeon, you’re going to agree to a reduction after your high school graduation. When you tell your friends you’ll get mixed responses. Some will be thrilled for you and others (boys) will mourn the upcoming date as though they’ve just been told their mom is dying.

When the day finally comes you’ll be accompanied by mom, your best friend and your boyfriend at the time. You’ll walk yourself into the operating room and be totally and fully awake as they prepare which, looking back, is incredibly disconcerting. Finally, the anesthesiologist will come in and say “Are you ready for some Michael Jackson juice?” Before you can worry about whether or not that means he’s going to kill you, you’ll be fast asleep. When you wake up you’ll be in a side room, chest bound, incredibly drowsy and looking into faces that are hovering far too close to yours, so thrilled to see you alive that you’ll actually wonder if that anesthesiologist was going to kill you.

Over the next couple of months, your breasts will heal. I doubt you know this, but if a large part of the breast has to be removed – and in your case it will be about four pounds – they have to take your chest apart with anchor shaped incisions. Remove the nipple, cut downward and then across. Free floating nipples. Super sexy, I know. You won’t be in much pain, but you’ll have to sleep on your back for a long time and mom will invest in a lot of weird shaped hernia pillows to help relieve your ever-aching butt. By the time your doctor approves you for sleeping on your side it will be like winning the lottery and then, mid-win, being told you won another lottery.

Nowadays, my boobs look fine. They have the consistency of giant tits, squishy and floppy, and some of my nerves never quite returned near my incision lines, but I sport a 32DD and I couldn’t be more grateful. I can wear whatever I want and my nipples stay inside my bra cup which is pretty lit, let me tell you. I can even wear just one sports bra while exercising and that’s a hell of a game changer. I guess this isn’t a letter of advice, so much as it is a warning of what’s to come in your teenage years. Having big boobs puts you on the map. People notice and, while it’s uncomfortable, it’s also a good way to learn to like yourself how you are. That five-pound pudge that consistently encircles your lower tummy is going to stick close to you for a long time, so embrace being tiny and curvy while you’ve got the boobs to match. Wear more v-necks, unbutton your flannel a little lower next time and be proud of what you’ve got. You and every other small framed, big-boobed person may be the only ones who know the true hell of carrying two watermelons around on your chest, but that will all be over soon, and it’s far more important to spend time loving yourself as is than worrying about how you look. Just food for thought.

Love,

Coco