The best thing about having small boobs
JEAN hated her flat chest when she was younger, but now she couldn’t be happier with her “fried eggs”. It gives her an advantage.
LAST week my 7-year-old son had a friend over to play. After a bit of Lego and a game of hide-and-seek they decided to get out the paper and pencils.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, looking over their shoulders. “Boobs!” they cried.
The friend showed me her illustration: two U shapes with nipples pointing downwards at the bottom. My son’s sketch was quite different. He’d drawn a couple of neat circles with smaller circles inside: fried eggs.
I laughed at the accuracy of the diagrams. The friend’s mother has DD-cup breasts. I’m a double A.
I wasn’t keen on puberty. I didn’t want any of it: The hairy armpits, the periods, the pimples. It all seemed awful and unnecessary. Fortunately, I was a late bloomer. My insipid hormones and underweight body led to a fairly unremarkable pubescent transformation.
As a teenager I was quite content with my childlike figure. I didn’t envy the well-developed girls at school who had to devise tricky ways to change into their PE uniforms lest anyone catch a glimpse of their new assets.
Things changed a little in my twenties. I finally felt like an adult, and I wanted to look like one too. My lower half co-operated — I had, by this time, grown some “good child-bearing hips” — but there still wasn’t much going on up top.
I discovered padded, push-up bras; however, even the smallest size wasn’t quite small enough: there was always a gap between my skin and the stiff cup.
When I fell pregnant at 26 I had no idea how my body would change. My stomach was suddenly a forest of black hair — thanks, hormones — but I also developed … wait for it … full B-cup boobs! It was amazing. I loved having cleavage, adored my new silhouette, enjoyed being able to buy “proper” bras at last.
But I couldn’t breastfeed forever. When my second child weened himself at 14 months I briefly considered pursuing a career as a wet nurse. Instead, I threw away my maternity underwear and said goodbye to my inflated bosoms.
I’m now 37. When I turn side-on and look at myself in the mirror I see a plank, a pancake, an ironing board. And while I’m an outspoken body-acceptance advocate (in front of my children), practising what I preach can be difficult.
Breast augmentation has crossed my mind. It seems like a relatively simple procedure: choose a size, get knocked out, wake up with bigger boobs (and a smaller bank account). But in my heart I know that silicon isn’t for me. I don’t dye my hair, I haven’t got any tatts, I hardly wear makeup: natural is my preference.
Putting on weight is another possibility — if only it worked. Extra fat does not enhance my womanly curves — it just deposits itself exclusively onto my stomach and thighs. I’m pretty sure I could double my body size and still fit into an AA-cup brassiere.
But you know what? There is one definite upside to being bosomly challenged: I am streamlined and aerodynamic. I am built for speed.
I took up running last year. I didn’t mean to — a friend encouraged me to join her — and although I wasn’t especially keen at first, it didn’t take me long to develop a slight obsession. I now run 5—6 km two or three times a week (and would go more often if I had the time).
Although I often run by myself or with my friend, every Saturday morning I head along to my local park run: A free, 5km, timed event organised by volunteers. The number of attendees varies, but there are generally around 120 Lycra-clad people at the starting line.
Recently, as I waited for the countdown, I looked around at my fellow park runners and something dawned on me: maybe having a flat chest is an advantage.
Almost all of the women who participate in park run have bigger breasts than me. When they run, things bounce. When I run, things stay right where they are. There’s no wobble and no extra weight to carry. I have nothing (except my own lack of fitness) to slow me down.
When I first started running I bought a generously padded sports bra. It had no function other than to hide my nipples and give people the impression I had something to support. Lately, however, I’ve been exercising in a non-padded crop top, which means there’s only a thin layer of material between me and the world.
And, for the first time in my life, I’m okay with that.
I’m not sure what happened — maybe I’m just getting more apathetic as I age — but suddenly I don’t feel so embarrassed about my Keira Knightley — esque torso — I just think of myself as a strong, fast, runner.
I will never have cleavage or fill out a swimsuit. Mammograms are going to be pretty much impossible. But when it comes to high-intensity exercise, I will appreciate my fried eggs.
And if I ever stop running I could always become a life model, because I’m pretty easy to draw — just start with two circles.
Jean Flynn is an author. Her new novel “Lovesick” won the inaugural XO Romance prize and is available now.
