My Two Best Friends
My Two Best Friends
By Elena Beth Pushaw
I never thought my breasts could turn on me. I was the one who helped them grow. I was the one who cared for them, gave them all of my attention. Perhaps I favored one over the other. Perhaps one was jealous. Either way, I did something wrong and they devised a plan with which to punish me.
I’m thirteen years old and I need my chest to grow. My Mom is a D cup and I have two older sisters: one is an A, one is a C. I’m screwed. The odds of me getting bigger are 50/50 and I have set my mind to becoming a proactive, pubescent teenager.
I’m smart, but I’m also desperate. I have to grow big boobs—my chest has to be bigger than my friends’. They’ve got nothing—I’m a B. I will grow if I put my mind to it.
The connection was made for girls nationwide that breasts thrive the same way that plants thrive: by talking to them. Where anyone drew the connection between plants and breasts was probably the same place where the Tampax company designed a rectangular tampon, but nevertheless it was better than relying on my genetics which could end up failing me.
I spent a large part of my early teenage years laying on my bed, shirtless, talking to my chest. Sometimes I’d read Seventeen or YM magazines to them. Sometimes I’d sing songs. We bonded.
Lying on my back was incredibly discouraging. My ribs stuck out farther than my boobs did. Life could not go on like this. I would push them together every day, hoping that at some point my efforts would pay off and eventually they would touch in the middle. I wouldn’t stop my ritual until they grew.
Then things got out of hand—or, they got too much in my hands. The Breast Talking Theory progressed in the girls’ locker room that not only talking to boobs would make them grow, but rubbing them would accelerate the process. And so I started rubbing. I rubbed in little circles. I rubbed in big circles. I rubbed vertically. I rubbed horizontally. My hands would ache but I kept going. I had the endurance to grow big breasts. I had the stamina to beat my genetic odds.
After almost a year, my chest had grown a little, but not enough. I filed out my B cup but that was it. I still wear the same bras I had before high school.
Even though I was stuck with B cups and will be for the rest of my life—until I can afford my boob job of course—I never stopped loving them. I still sing to them in the shower. I still rub them. Lucky for me, though, or I never would have found that tumor.
So, ladies, rub your breasts. Talk to them. Confide in them. Work together. You’re a team and if you don’t get to know them, they might end up turning on you.
