Diary of a Barely B
Monday, August 30, 2010
By
She was standing in a dressing room wearing a $700 evening gown when she called us crying.
“I need to speak to Mom,” she demanded. “Now.”
In the car, I handed the phone to our mother, whose eyes would have rolled out of their sockets and onto the highway, if that was even possible. We were both used to my sister’s certain brand of over-exaggerated, not-really-an-emergency emergencies, but this time, I was on her side. I knew there was only one thing that could make my sister cry in haute couture which she happened to score for 75% off. My mom put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and turned to me.
“She doesn't fill out her dress for the senior ball,” she whispered.
I shook my head and kicked my feet up onto the dashboard.
“And her boyfriend called her a table.”
“A table?”
“A cute table.”
Somewhere between mile markers and my disbelief that a 20-something-year-old man would call his flat-chested girlfriend a table while she was standing in the unflattering light of a consignment shop dressing room, it hit me. As someone who spent her entire life teasing the only person she’s known literally forever, why wasn't this joke funny? Regardless of what we wear, how we wear it, or how expensive or inexpensive the dress, my twin sister and I will always be flat-chested, and that is something we cannot hide.
It started in the locker room during sixth grade, the first year that we had to change into different clothes for gym class. To me, bras were only worn by girls who had boys to take them off, like Samantha*, who insisted she went to second base behind the middle-school bleachers, and I didn't know what she meant. My prepubescent self most certainly did not need one of those, but when I walked across that freezing cold locker room so I could change in a bathroom stall, I noticed that everyone had something I didn't. I changed in that stall for sixth months, accumulating exactly four lunch-time detentions because it made me late for class.
I became envious of the girls whose bras peaked out of their spaghetti strapped tank tops. They flaunted it because they knew what it meant. Obviously needing a bra meant you had breasts, but no one just had breasts. With breasts came a new uncertain sense of sexuality that I wasn’t sure I even wanted—that I, with my flat chest, still feel like I’m lacking. Most important of all, having breasts meant, with no shadow of a doubt, that you were a woman. You were the kind of girl boys whispered about in the hallway or passed notes about, scribbling down how out-of-their- league you really were. To be flat meant you were one of the guys, a woman disguised in the body of a 13-year-old boy, invisible.
As all invisible, inexperienced girls do, I consulted my male 13-year-old cousin, who was older, female-obsessed, and allegedly knowledgeable about real women—not girls like me. He frequently boasted about losing his virginity earlier in the summer, which I still don't believe, and at 23, he still insists. I needed his male perspective.
“All girls wear bras,” he said. “You'll get Skittle-itis if you don't.”
Skittle-itis sounded more like something awfully contagious than what it was—when a braless girl gets cold, and it looks like she has two Skittles where her you-know-whats are. For fear of contracting a disease or drawing more attention to my already too-small chest, I asked my mom to buy me a bra. A real bra—not the cupless, underwireless piece of cloth I sometimes wore beneath my tank top so I could easily switch in and out of my gym clothes without fully exposing myself.
“What?” She exclaimed in front of my entire loud, Italian family, who are as likely to ignore something this embarrassing as they are to ignore a Yankees World Series game. “For those little mosquito bites?”
From then on, that's what my breasts became—annoying, tiny spots that I hid underneath a double-A push-up. My bra and I were married. We slept together, spent the day together, spent the night together, and only parted when I needed to shower. It was the only way I could really hide what they were.
I don't know if it was something I truly believed, but I wished with every fiber in my being that I would wake up on my sixteenth birthday with a brand new pair of breasts and a closet full of 32-C sized bras— like the breast-fairy came overnight, and I no longer had to be one of the guys. Despite the fact that all teenage girls had boobs and that was the natural order in life, come junior year of high school, I was still waiting. My sister gave up all together and decided to be proactive.
First came the toilet paper, which she stuffed in her training bra on only one occasion, just to see what it would look like when it finally happened for us.
Second came the absurdly padded bra. The one day I borrowed it, I pulled off my shirt in the girl's locker room, and my best friend of eleven years asked me if I really thought anyone was buying that my boobs were real. She didn't understand. She had Ds.
The third came later, when we were in college: the infamous cutlet. Named after the same piece of chicken my mom used to fry in garlic and olive oil, my sister swore by them in any dress that needed cleavage. Newsflash: when I tried them on, still no cleavage.
Then there was the push-up bra, the water bra, the double-bra, and the Maidenform POOF! which my cousin swore gave her two whole cup sizes. It gave me zero—in fact, I swear it made me even flatter.
Then something changed in me. After years of bragging that a 32-B looked bigger on me than my taller sister, like it was some kind of used car I was waiting to upgrade; after the wear and tear of donning suffocating, constricting bras in an attempt to push my barely-Bs up and away into the sky grew too much to take, I went braless for the first time in nine years. It was a backless, satin, copper-colored dress that was the first fabric to touch my girls since I could remember (other than a towel, bathing suit, or the cheap polyester/cotton blend that the only bras that ever fit me were usually made of).
That night was mine and my sister’s birthday, and we had picked out our outfits together. The dress was an impulse buy; we bought it on a street corner two blocks from her apartment where no dressing room mirrors could influence our decision. She held the fabric in her hand and fiddled with the buttons on the back.
“My roommate has this dress, you should get it,” she said. “But you definitely can’t wear a bra.”
“Does your roommate go braless?” I asked.
“She has bigger boobs,” she sighed and pushed the dress back into the rack. I scanned through some skirts until she turned to me again, “But I really sort of want it anyway.”
“So get it, as long as you don’t mind spending a night without your cutlets.”
“Every normal girl wears them, you don’t know anything,” It took her years to assure herself of that. “I can’t get it anyway. I can’t copy her.”
She turned the tag over. “It’s only ten dollars.”
After holding the dress out in front of me and picturing a much better version of myself staring back in the pretend mirror, I decided to give it a try.
That night I stood alone in my room, watching it dangle from the hanger on my dresser, trying to figure out how it could possibly be worn with my beloved push-up. Without a bra there was no padding. There was no extra lift that made my breasts look a tiny bit more substantial—it was just me. Because it’s best to dive into difficult things like you’re ripping a Band-Aid, I held my breath, dropped my towel, and put it on. I walked toward the mirror, eyes half closed, resisting potential trauma, and braced myself. I opened my eyes, and sighed in relief. What I had been avoiding for nine years wasn’t really so bad. The ground didn’t shake, I didn’t self-combust, and I actually sort of liked what I saw. I couldn’t help but notice that I looked thin, tall for someone who was only 5’ 3”, and impossibly flat-chested. I was somehow perfectly proportioned in my body, which took twenty years to grow into what it was: a young woman who was no longer afraid of herself.
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About the Author
Biography
Mariel Loveland is in love with writing. She recently graduated from SUNY Purchase College wtih a major in Creative Writing and a minor in Studio Composition. There she was the editor-in-chief of The Independent, her campus's only print news source. Currently, she runs a blog entitled "Writing the Ship" (http://www.writing-the-ship.blogspot.com) where she documents her life as a recent graduate. When she is not writing words, she can be found writing songs for her punk band and playing guitar loudly in the basements of seedy (and sometimes not-so-seedy) NYC clubs. In the past, Mariel has interned for Lucky Magazine in the Online Editorial Department and Columbia Records as part of their A&R and Digital Research team as well as contributing to other on-campus publications. In her spare time, she dabbles in graphic design, fiction writing, and window shopping on the internet. Currently, she works at Babble.com where she handles all their social media.
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Comments
Haha strange title I know. My friends, many of whom definitely have boobs on the larger size, are often talking about how awesome their breasts are, how much they love them, blah dee blah. I'm a 32 C, which I know is not that tiny, but I still hate it when they talk about how big their breasts are. One of my friends is a little bit on the larger side (but not by much) and she barely has breasts - she once expressed to me that she hated the fact that she has fat everywhere except for where she wants it: in her breasts. Is it unreasonable for me to want my friends to stop talking about this? I know I'm jealous, (I used to be a 34C, then on birth control a 32D, and still on birth control lost weight and am now a 32C) and that it's stupid societal ideals responsible for making everyone want Ds or whatever.
On that point, it is so, so stupid that big breasts (usually conspicuously big) are "IN". In my opinion, and I've heard bigger-breasted women talk about this too, breasts distract men, and oftentimes they themselves are sexualized for no other reason than their natural breast size. So perhaps right there is one positive for women with smaller breasts (in addition to the athletics reason).
Now a question. My one friend always, always has her (BIG) boobs out on display in very low cut tops, and she often consciously further draws attention to them. Is it really wrong for me to not like that, to want to say to her "please, put those away!" Why do I not like it when girls put their breasts on display? Is it the feminist in me, or just plain old jealousy?
I am a 34A. I also have scoliosis which means my chest wall is caves inward about an inch. Despite my small chest, in college I never wore padded bras. Not that I was flat and proud, I just figured it is better to be real and at least fake like you are proud, than to show others you are insecure. In fact, I think some of my big breasted friends envied me, for though I was flat and walked with confidence, pride, and always told myself I was beautiful. I always had a boyfriend too, guys never seemed to care much about my chest, those that did just didn't pick me. At the end of the day I was still walked in confidence and I don't have the prettiest face either. Then one day my boyfriends mother bought me a padded bra, I gracefully refused and told her I was happy the way I am. She did not understand my confidence and felt it was rebellious. I have even had men offer to pay for my breast implants, which I also gracefully refused.
I ended up getting married and my very handsome husband never once complained about my breast. Then some 6 years later I got divorced. I had a baby and did not have the same hot body or confidence. I was completely flat, even after breast feeding, but now my pudgy belly stuck out further than my chest. The scoliosis did not help either and my chest just looked sunken in.
So I started wearing padded bras. Immediately I got attention from men. So much so it made me even think about getting implants the attention was so great. In fact the attention became overwhelming. For not only did I know how to walk with confidence, I actually had a body to match, so they thought. Yet I knew all these men are attracted to something that is not me and not real. Its just padding that looked great. And in those intimate times when I took off the bra, and men seen my real breast, those usually never called me back. Their hot-model chic was actually a real person with flaws.
Yet I can't really complain because it was a learning lesson to me. I have many other great parts about me, from lips, eyes, nose, hair, face, skin, butt, brains, and personality. Yet somehow I wanted to be perfect 10 and started to rely on padded bras, as if because my breast was small they were not perfect too. I now go braless. It is hard because like any drug, there is always the detox period. Yet everyday it gets easier. And now I realize that a man who picks me, will pick the real me. Not a false perception. And many men will overlook me, but I would rather be with one man that loves me for who I really am, than to have to hundreds that only want me if I look perfect. Sometimes I often wonder if I would ever get implants, yet if I got implants I don't think the attention would change, I would be swarmed by men again, yet I wouldn't have the option of taking my fake breast off to see who runs or who stays. For now my small breast are my compass, they weed out many men, and I know when a guy picks me, its because he truly like me, and not just for looks or body.
because if you're quite thin with small breasts, you might have an unusual bra size! I would know; I went from thinking I was a 34A to knowing I'm a 30C. Yes, your boobs are the same size; but at least you're wearing a well-fitting, sexy bra! No more $7.99 bras from Target (that's where mine all used to be from).
I'm in my last year of college and am far from "barely B" - I'm a double-A and have been or smaller for my whole life. A few years ago, it really bothered me. Then I read Nora Ephron's essay (wonderfully written, the DD article referenced it, http://condor.depaul.edu/~mwilson/extra/multicultur/nora.htm) and it got me thinking a little more. I used to be like her and have a collection of different-sized padded bras. I phased them out, and now I'm proud to be only unlined.
I definitely think the ideal is to be proud of your breasts and body as a whole without relying on guys' opinions. That said, the surprise to me was that the "rack of every guy's dreams" that Charlotte referenced doesn't actually exist! I didn't believe it at first, but I think every guy has different preferences, and not all are going to go for the C+ girls. At the very least, there are guys who won't care about breast size. The first boyfriend I asked about them said it really wasn't an issue for him - he was a self-described "legs and ass" man. And I'm very lucky to be with my current boyfriend, who adores my breasts and calls them beautiful. So small chested girls, never fear! Guys' exclusive preference for large breasts is definitely just a myth.
And one thing I am SO thankful for is that I can wear anything, even incredibly low cut shirts, and it won't look slutty!
As a barely B myself, I know it can be extremely painful emotionally. I've gone through years with my friends teasing me (without malice of course) over my small chest. Few of them could/can understand - most of my friends are tall and have at least C cups. I'm only 5'1 and pretty slim, so it's no real surprise that I am a bit flat. But then I have my girl friend who is the same height and even tinier than me with double D boobs that look impossible even though they are real.
For the longest time, I just didn't get it. It felt unfair. I didn't feel like a girl. I can 100% relate to wanting to suddenly wake up and be a larger size, even if it wasn't that huge of a change. But slowly, I've come to accept that I am proportionate and that there are definitely positives to having a smaller chest than others.
I still struggle with feeling sexy or womanly sometimes without having the rack of every guys' dreams, but I decided I don't need that. It's a work in progress, but I'm getting to being completely happy with my body. Great post, Mariel!
I'm the writer of this article, and don't get me wrong, I love my 32-A-sometimes-B breasts, but I wrote this article to show what it felt like growing up, being the last girl to get any sort of breasts. I was a small A until the latter years of college. Of course everyone feels differently about their body even if they fall in the normal range of bodies, and what someone else has and doesn't want, maybe someone else wants. I'm totally flat-chested, and totally proud, but getting there was hard.
And also, never be ashamed of your breasts, no matter how they look--small, big, whatever.
I am also a 32B and love my breasts. I think they are very much in proportion to my body and would not consider them "small." But then I read this.. If she is so self-conscious about her breasts, should I be too? What is wrong with being a 32 B?
i liked this i just didnt think it had the same umphhhh as a the DD diary. being a "barely B" isn't exactly debilitating. i would know.
This is fabulous, Mariel! So true and I can definitely relate! I really enjoyed reading this :)
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