What It’s Really Like Having Big Breasts

“I’m going be Bette Midler!” I sobbed into my pillow in 4th grade.

Totally normal childhood fear, right? Every kid worries they’re going to turn into a ginger mega-diva at some point, don’t they? Well, for me at least, it was a legitimate worry.

I wasn’t concerned I would get her booming voice or her in-your-face personality. I wasn’t worried about getting famous, or being an icon, or starring in kitschy movies. I was worried I’d get her boobs. You see, Better Midler is, how you’d say, well-endowed. She even sang a whole song about boobs in her smash hit Beaches. Bette and boobs go hand in hand (sometimes literally—have you seen that musical number?)

At nine years old, and the only bra-bearing kid in my class, I was terrified I would suffer a similar fate. My mom assured me I was just an early bloomer and reminded me that I was also taller than the other kids in my class. I was simply hitting growth spurts—everywhere—earlier than my peers.

Well, she was right about the height. I stopped growing the following year, and now I’m shorter than most of the population. My boobs, however, have never stopped growing. At 37, they still have growth spurts.

I needn’t have worried that I would turn into Better Midler. You see, I surpassed Bette’s boobs 15 years ago. Bette now worries she’s going to turn into me. If I ever have the pleasure of meeting the Divine Miss M., she’s going to take one look at me and say, “Damn, that woman has some big boobs. Dolly, take a look at this!”

I can hear the inevitable, “Lucky you, can you give some to me?” rearing its ugly head as a collective come back from many of you. First of all, I’ve heard that roughly as many times as Shaquille O’Neal has been asked how the weather is up there. Second, freakin’ yes, if you can figure out how to make it work, you can have some! I’m free tomorrow.

Being Busty McBooberson isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m a K cup. No, not the little pods that you use to make coffee, closer to the bulk box you buy them in. Two people could use my bra as a tandem hat. When I look down, I see what appears to be two bald three-year-olds hugging.

I’m not saying they’re a hazard, but my bra undid itself at Second Cup last week, and I took out 10 people. The domino effect after the first guy tripped was brutal. You can tell I’m braless in the winter by the tracks I leave in the snow. When I lay on my back, they cover my face and try to kill me. Get the picture yet? I’m drowning in boobs.

I mean, sure, there are some benefits. I can legitimately hold an entire bottle of wine in my bra without suspicion. I have photographic evidence. If I’m being honest, I can hold an entire bottle of wine under my boobs without a bra too. I can also take my temperature with a thermometer under one of them. I checked—it’s accurate. I can do some fun puppetry with them too (I’m available for parties).

But mostly, they are a hindrance at this size. All kidding aside, I would trade these guys for a C-cup in a heartbeat. I can’t find shirts that fit. I have to go to specialty shops for bras, and they cost a minimum of $80-$100 each. (Do you see why my bra is popping open at Second Cup?)

They cause skin infections and irritation. Unless my bra fits exactly perfectly, which is difficult to do, part of my boob is always resting against skin, and no matter how clean I keep it in there, chaffing and irritation happens.

It hurts. I have back problems already, and carrying boulders with my shoulders doesn’t help. They are a legitimate medical concern.

So mostly, I joke about having the boobs that ate Toronto, and I take their comedically large size with a heavy dose of humor and self-deprecation. I’m grateful that despite their size, I have healthy, functional breasts. Not everyone is so lucky. Once in a while, I dream about what it would be like to walk into the store, see a bra in my size for $20, and just buy it. Or to button up a shirt that isn’t three times the size I would need for the rest of my body. I’d like to lay on my side of the bed without my boobs getting stepped on or rolled onto.

So, the next time you see me kidding about the size of my boobs, take a second to realize that sometimes, they are the tears of a clown.

A clown with a really, really big rack.

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