Downside of having bigger than D cup

This probably sounds like the most self-centered, selfish, and frankly downright annoying white girl problem… but there’s more to it, I promise.

Society is built on four essential and dominant pillars: Husky puppies, Game of Thrones, Dunkin coffee and most importantly, first impression. Whether we like to admit it or not, the power of first impressions is incalculable, and because we give them so much influence, they’re harder to shake than STDs. Psychologists have said that people form an opinion about others in less than 2 seconds after meeting them. What does this have to do with having above-average shirt-sabouters? I’ll get to that later… Having bigger breasts isn’t fun for several reasons.

Of course, a busty chest is in the first place awkward… strapless bras, bathing suits, sports bras? Well, forget that one. And don’t even get me started on going braless… Big boobs take up way too much space; they make exercise an act of technique, rather than fitness; they are unfortunately a regular talking point; they make everything I wear look like a Playboy campaign, and the chest sweat could fry a batch of McDonalds fries. Not only are they evil to our fragile spines, but they are a real villain to our bank accounts, and the investments made are comparable to our grandmother’s tablecloth wrapped in enough braces to build an electric fence. And as if these larger-than-life-size-shoulder boulders weren’t already a burden to say the least, they eventually become one of the preeminent and recognizable definitions of my identity. And don’t get me wrong, sometimes I like to be known… But I’d rather be known for something other than a simple technical act of God or something not usually associated with porn, nipples or breastfeeding (uh).

I mean, don’t get it wrong: I love my body. Yes, the tremors on my thighs can reach dangerous levels on the Richter scale and without 3 layers of sports bras I can’t exercise without giving the general public my own personal rendition of “Bounce It” by Juicy J. But overall, I think I’m exuding the “probably does-20-minute-cardio-but-can-eat-easy-eat-3-pieces-pizza” vibe… And I’m okay with that. But I wish my chest wasn’t so noticeable. And I’ll take some responsibility – I’m not hiding these sweater stretchers at all. But honestly I don’t think I can win. I try to dress like everyone else… you know I’m just a college girl trying to be trendy but when I follow the trends I either wear my size and look like a bimbo or wear a bigger size and see look like a stupid imbecile. I would just love to be able to wear a tank top in August and not be criticized for looking like a naughty nymphomaniac from a video game. In the end, it’s all people remember about me. I want my first impression to be remembered by the substance of my character, not by the prominence of my cleavage.

So, if studies show that people confirm their opinions of others in less than two seconds, how do I overcome my image as a cheesy sex motive? Obviously I can’t cut these bite-sized chunks… If I can only afford one supportive bra, I certainly can’t afford plastic surgery. And why should I? I love themI just don’t like them stigma. Of course I could only wear oversized t-shirts, turtlenecks or parkas… But why should these dinosaur eggs be hidden? I don’t want to hide any of the things that set me apart, I just don’t want it to be the nothing but thing that sets me apart. So what must a bosom girl do to overcome the demon of her melons reputation? Will anyone ever be able to see past the first impression left by my organically exaggerated sternum? I mean, it’s just a physical trait built by genetics, chance, and probably excessive cheesecake or hot wings that I didn’t have to eat.

If you’re defined by a physical trait, then you know how I feel. Maybe you’re the girl with the big nose, or the guy with lots of freckles. It’s a compliment, of course, but it’s hard not to worry that no one will see more than just those things. When I realized how much I was being judged, I realized how much I judge. I see the clashing patterns on people’s pants, the wrinkles by their eyes, the frizz of their hair before I ever listened to the substance that comes out of their mouths.

So maybe we can all make an effort to stop making quick judgments based on the appearance of others. No one should be defined by their skin tone, tone of voice, hair texture, skin pigment, clothing brands, freakin’ wingedness of their eyeliner, or any other negligible characteristic… like their damn bra size. Let’s define each other by our fascinations, relationships, sense of humor or even our damn favorite foods. Nobody is a thing; we’re all amalgamations of different vital virtues – we’re just savory pies, embellished with sprinkles and icing, but with a plethora of different ingredients that give them their true flavour… I mean, doesn’t all icing taste the same, right? (Leave it to me to use a food metaphor)

But the thing is, while I don’t mind it, and sometimes even like it, I’m known for these upper body passion fruit, I hope people recognize that there may be something more to me than the naturally redundant nature of my chest – just as there is more to that girl with the rolling backpack or the guy with the slim glasses. So give people opportunities; introduce yourself; get to know people beyond the first impression… you’ll be amazed at what you discover you may have overlooked.

And you might think this comment is obnoxious, hypocritical, or just a typical white girl complaining about intangible obstacles in the first world. But I hope you can still appreciate that the plight of being more than a D-Cup transcends boobs, fashion trends, or other superficial bull sh*t; we shouldn’t judge others by their looks, but by their integrity and their spirit… because even though creepy and voluptuous bastards think otherwise, the substance of my character comes out in what I say, not what bra size I wear.