By: Monroe Musings
When I was in middle school, one my close friends felt it was time that two very special parts of my body were appropriately named. Enter Niagara and Angel. Now before we get too ahead of ourselves in this story, let’s go back to the beginning.
When I was in second grade (for those of you paying close attention, yes, you read that correctly) I went to the doctor’s office with my mom at which time my doctor looked at my mom and reminded her that we needed to have the “the talk.” While I don’t really remember what “the talk” entailed, I do remember what came from “the talk.” A bra.
Spoiler alert, we’re officially talking about my boobs. Now, before you start rolling your eyes, I encourage you to keep reading this story because it may surprise you.
As a second grader who prided herself in being a tomboy, you can only imagine what the thought of having a bra would do to my psyche. I actually remember trying to avoid wearing a bra at all costs. Apparently second-grade me discovered that dark shirts were the secret way to avoid having to wear them, because if I tried to wear white my mom would give me the “where’s your bra” look.
What my mom didn’t realize was the underlying reason I hated wearing a bra wasn’t the tight straps and annoyance the snaps never seem to work when you want them to, but the fact that girls in my class were starting to gossip.
This is where the real story begins. I can still remember the conversations as though they happened yesterday.
GIRLS: “Oh. My. Gosh. Are you wearing a bra?”’
BOYS: No comment.
While boys were much too busy to pay attention to any signs of puberty around then, girls instantly knew there was something different. I would constantly check to make sure my bra straps didn’t sneak out from under my t-shirts to avoid having to hear the whispers. The reason these memories are still etched in my mind are probably because they never seemed to go away.
Enter middle school.
GIRLS: “Oh. My. God. Did you get a boob job? Like, how big is your push up bra really?”
BOYS: “So like, can I touch them?”
Enter high school.
GIRLS: “Oh. My. God. What a slut. Are you trying to make your boobs stick out more?”
BOYS: “So like, can I touch them?”
Enter college.
GIRLS: “He probably only talks to you because of your boobs. You know what, I’m going to get a boob job.”
BOYS: “So like, can I touch them?”
“My boobs are just one of
my many strengths.”
Enter present day.
ME: “Fuck, my back hurts.”
Before I get too far ahead, let me go back to my original story because by now I’m sure you’re dying to know why my boobs are named Angel and Niagara.
While in middle school my classmates and I went to a water park for a field trip (don’t ask why, it was educational) and after getting off the ride my shirt was soaked from top to bottom with the exception of directly under my boobs. Like a waterfall, the water had surpassed my under boob and left the area completely dry. Thus Angel [Falls] and Niagra [Falls] were born. You’re welcome.
And for those of you probably wondering, here’s the quick stats:
My boobs are real.
My boobs are large. Very large.
The truth is boobs, particularly large natural boobs, are the worst. Now, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my boobs but they have caused quite some grief throughout the years.
One of my largest frustrations stems from clothes, probably why I was never the one to always have a closet full of clothes and how I never fell prey to online shopping addictions. You see, fashion trends are not kind to curvaceous petite ladies.
Those crop tops? No.
Those deep v tank tops and flowy dresses? Nope.
Those cute body suits? Not a one.
Those fun bathing suits? Try again.
Those sexy teddies and lingerie? What a joke.
Those functional sports bras? Ha! More like put on two and hope your boobs don’t give you a black eye during those jumping jacks.
While clothes are a struggle, they are only a small facet of the problem. What I’ve alluded to and joked about is that boobs, particularly large boobs, become your identifier and in many cases what you are reduced to. While my boobs are great and for being so large still rather perky, they are only one small facet of who I am yet my entire life they’ve been the center of everything. If all of the chatter had been positive it may not be as large of an issue but in a lot of the instances my boobs had negative connotations.
Now don’t get me wrong, I know that everyone suffers from body dysmorphia in some form or another, but there’s something about big boobs that is just different. Guys would look past your intelligence and humor and just see BOOBS. Girls would either judge you out of jealousy and spite or judge you for not being grateful for what you have. They were the ultimate elephant in the room.
It wasn’t until I was in college and even more recently when I started Monroe Musings and modeling, that I realized something about boobs. I didn’t need to hide from boobs, I needed to embrace them. See what I did there.
“Boobs are a piece of me,
but they don’t define me.”
Here’s what I uncovered:
Boobs are a piece of me, but they don’t define me.
Boobs increased my self-confidence (and ironically at times tore it down).
Boobs are more unique and special than fingerprints because unless you’re a criminal they share your entire life story.
Like taking your bra off after a long day or ripping off your top in the middle of a public place, boobs are the ultimate symbol of both freedom and feminism.
Above all, Boobs are beautiful.
While I still feel self-conscious thoughts about my boobs and at times wish I could cut them off Game of Thrones-style, they are no longer the taboo subject. My boobs are just one of my many strengths.
Photography by Tiffany Alanoori @tiffanyalanooriphoto
Jewelry: SELFISH the Label @selfishthelabel
Words and Model: Monroe Musings @monroemusings
