All of you readers have been such great sports over the past few weeks reading, commenting and engaging in some pretty heavy topics that I have put forth. So I wanted to lighten it up a bit for all of us, and tell you a little tale about me. And this tale is all about my boobs!
I was a late bloomer, so late in fact that I had pretty much given up. I was rail thin, with glasses and no curves anywhere. And I stayed this way right up until the end of high school. My self esteem was based solely on my personality and I was lucky enough to have the same social circle to take me from the high school transition right on into university. I was surrounded by friends who were infinitely smarter than me, so being a flat chested tomboy, really didn’t seem to matter much. Looking back, it feels so surreal that I was fortunate enough to have gone to a high school which focused on academics and not popularity. My friends and I still laugh about how strange it was the the smarter you were, the more popular you became. Bizzaro land for sure.
So, by now you may have figured out that my social skills may not have been quite like other people my age. Surrounded by the smartie pants and absolutely no reason to talk to the opposite sex for anything other than friendship, because let’s face it, I was not the hot one, I entered into the summer before university completely unaware that something big was about to happen to me.
So let me take you back to that summer and share with you one of the most memorable conversations of my life. I had noticed that my breasts had grown a little bit, but being summer I was often in tube tops, spaghetti strapped shirts and bikini tops so I tell you honestly, it didn’t dawn on me just how drastic my body was changing. And keep in mind, all my female friends reached puberty between 11 and 14, so I was resigned to just being a skinny rail like my mom.
So here I am, riding a power lawn mower at our acreage (the one chore I actually enjoyed doing) soaking up all the sunshine, in a tube top, while listening to my diskman (yes we are going way back). Oblivious and happy at the sweet naive age of 17. On the front porch sat about 10 of my male family friends, ranging in age from 30 – 40 ish, all drinking beer, laughing and doing what guys do on a Saturday afternoon, shooting the shit.
Suddenly there is a commotion. There is yelling, then laughter, then a few heated remarks and finally an eerie silence. I hop off my lawn mower to go investigate what the dumb asses were up to now, and that’s when I noticed they were all staring straight at me. Well, all except my step dad who was red in the face and looking anywhere but at me. Then the guy closest to me (I will not name names to protect anonymity) mumbles something about my boobs. My face goes bright red! “What?” I ask. He asks again, but a little louder this time. “We have a bet going, are your boobs fake or real?”
And that’s when it dawned on me. My boobs didn’t just grow a little bit, they were freaking insane, especially for my size. I had gone from a small, shall we say barely B cup, to a DD in what actually felt like over night. So thank you genetics for the very late surprise! And I hope this picture will finally lay to rest the debate that I have been dealing with for just about 17 years now.
So if you’ve ever asked yourself if they are real or not… they are. And you are not the first to ask, nor will you be the last.
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