B-Team to C-Team

If anything miraculous ever happened to me, it happened to my breasts—their saga worthy of their own Lifetime movie classic.

From the onset of middle school to the later years of high school, I identified myself as a flat-chested person as readily as I identified myself as an American citizen. While I flaunted strapless tops and transparent shirts in an attempt to elicit envy from my anatomically affluent friends, rationally I knew I had nothing to brag about. Thus, it was with great joy that I greeted the surprising news that I had grown into a size B. I had been called up from the minor leagues and traded to a respectable team. B was average, a solid score, a passing grade. I was content with my lingerie drawer for the rest of my teen years.

This era of moderation, however, abruptly dissolved during one fateful visit to Victoria’s Secret last summer, where I struggled to fit into my current size. Upon a sales assistant’s recommendation that I adjust my search to the proceeding letter, I felt like a very bizarre Cinderella, realizing with astonishment that I was now a perfect C. My world was permanently altered. The achievement ranked among the all-time greatest triumphs of my life, positioned somewhere between passing the N.C. driving test on my second attempt and winning the third-grade reading award.

Boobs have always baffled me. For one thing, there really doesn’t seem to be a male equivalent. For men, the discovery of breasts is inexorably linked with the process of coming-of-age. A lifetime is divided into two eras: before boobs and after boobs. Plunging necklines and micro-bikinis become idols in a new religion.

In contrast, the general female population never uncovered their mother’s secret stash of Playgirl magazines, brimming with images of impressive genitalia, mostly because these lewd stockpiles probably never existed. The naked male sex organ is not inherently sexy, but rather gains appeal through its function. Contrastingly, breasts make no active contributions to the bedroom repertoire, yet dominate the sex appeal equation.

Some might argue that boobs actually play a pivotal and active role in sexual enjoyment, but I think these might be the same people who bragged in seventh grade about getting to second base. What was the deal with second base anyway? How much did you need to grab to qualify? Was licking a prerequisite? Did the bra have to be removed? Did the whole process really merit its own title? Within our preteen confusion over second base, I find the origins of all the misinformed squeezing and grabbing that some confuse with foreplay. In reality, without nipples, breasts are just the pretty, dumb girl at the party: nice to look at but really rather worthless.

As a newly initiated member of an exclusive organization (if one takes great liberty in the use of the word exclusive), I am at a loss to how to properly utilize my blessings. Now that I play for team C, I still can’t make my boobs do anything more exciting than fill out a sweater and balance overloaded cafeteria trays. In the midst of visually induced expectations, breasts everywhere harbor untapped potential. Just don’t expect me not to still be smug about mine.