Over the summer, my roommate and I went out to check out a new bar that had opened in town. While there, we ran into her former roommate from freshman year. I’ll call her Linda.
We talked with her a little bit about how her classes were going and things like that, but I found myself staring – per usual – at her boobs.
Now, do not get me wrong, she looked adorable. She is this tiny little blonde thing, with perfect hair and makeup. Her boobs are just always out to play, and for good reason – when she graduated high school, she got a boob job. She’s proud of them, so she shows them off.
That night, when I got home, I got to thinking, why don’t I have the confidence to pull off outfits like her? I have big boobs, and mine are natural. I shouldn’t feel ashamed to go to the bar in a low-cut shirt. But I am.
I was graced with breasts at an early age. As soon as I went to middle school, I had to start wearing a bra: having breasts in middle school is not a fun experience. Boys naturally were drawn to me, but instead of knowing what to do, they would pick on me. It was never anything horrible, but enough to make me self-conscience. What I remember most was being plagued by little balls of paper being thrown down my shirt whenever I would wear anything other than a sweater or a T-shirt. Harmless, really, but embarrassing. The worst incident was an older boy on the bus was looking down my shirt from behind me. Boys I still consider my friends caught him and told me, but they still laughed, and from then on I was self-conscience of my body.
As I got older, the boys got over throwing paper down my shirt, but the thought was forever implanted. “Pull up your shirt.” I still hear it from my mother today.
So, enter college and I meet young women with breast implants. These women rock their breasts. They don’t look trashy, as I feel when I wear a lower cut shirt, but look beautiful. These women didn’t grow up being told by society to hide what your body looks like. They made the conscience decision to look the way they do, and they are confident. That confidence presents itself as beauty.
Every body type is beautiful. It’s a matter of being comfortable in your own skin.
Now, I try to make a conscience effort to look at what I wear and decide if I’m comfortable or not. I might never be able to show off “what my momma gave me” like some other girls, but that’s OK. What I shouldn’t do is let someone else’s impression of me change who I am. If I decide I’m more comfortable in a turtleneck, then that’s what I’m going to wear. But I’m no longer going to hide because I think my body is a target.
Big, small, real or fake, we need to all be comfortable in our skin. Not for boys, or our families, or anyone else but for ourselves. Only then will our true beauty show through. So, when you’re picking the outfit you want to wear to the bar, pick whichever you feel best in. Forget about that cute boy from science lab and that mean chick from English, and no offense to mom, but forget about her, too. If you are confident, ten bucks says you will have a better night, and that boy from your lab just might come talk to you.