I was the first girl in my class to wear a bra. I used to wiggle my way into my gym clothes in the confines of the bathroom stall to conceal this fact from the other girls. I was the only one who had something to hide behind the thin white cotton shirt of her Girl Scout uniform. Luckily, the green smock-style dress and sash took care of my need for camouflage. Although I was only in the fourth grade, my body thought I had already entered junior high school. I’m sure it was only trying to keep up with my brain.

One day in the locker room, when the bathroom stall was occupied and I was under strict time constraints to change my clothes, a classmate gasped when she saw the not-so-faint outline of the training bra I wore through my shirt. It wasn’t even a real training bra. It was a hand-me-down from my cousin, Michelle, who was 3 years older. Her bra shrunk in the wash and somehow it landed in my mother’s possession and finally mine. My mom handed the contraption over to me one evening with the suggestion that I try it on.

“A bra? I don’t need to wear a bra!” I was appalled. NO one I associated with was wearing such a thing. That is, no one who was in my age range, which spanned a maximum of 6 months on either side of my birth date.

“You really do need it. Besides, the boys will think it’s cool,” Michelle stated when my mom enlisted outside support. I looked up to her, being a teenager and all, so her words were taken to heart. I didn’t understand why the boys would think it was cool – I was rather embarrassed by the look of the thing. But Michelle said that I needed to wear it, and the look on her face told me that she meant it.

I put the flowered harness on grudgingly and looked at myself in the mirror. Tears ran down my cheeks. I didn’t want to grow up yet. Having to wear a bra meant that somehow, it had already happened. As I looked at my reflection, I remembered a teenage girl who once made fun of me at the roller skating rink. “How old are you?” She asked. “What!?! You’re in the fourth grade? I can’t believe you already have boobs!” She exclaimed in front of all her friends. I grabbed my skates from the check-in counter and walked off, embarrassed beyond belief. I felt like a freak of nature. “What fourth grader has boobs?” I thought to myself and chalked it up to the fact that I was a little overweight.

My attempts to thwart the growth of my chest over the next few years failed me. When I was in the Sixth Grade, I used to wear my bra to bed at night. Someone told me that if I wore a bra non-stop, my breasts could not get any bigger. I only took my bra off when I had to bathe. At all other times, I had it tightly strapped onto my body, wearing a size that was surely too small. Something in the back of my head told me that the rumor probably wasn’t true, but in the off chance that it was, I would do anything to stunt my bust. Finally, my mom took me to the store for a long overdue upgrade in cup size. After that, I had to let the myth go and finally stopped wearing my bra to bed.

Years later, I was in High School, when having a “decent rack” was something to be envied. My breasts had magically turned from objects of ridicule to objects of desire. Technically speaking, we didn’t refer to them as breasts in those days. We preferred to call them tits. But I digress. During my freshman year, I had a boyfriend (a junior!) who would walk up behind me at my locker and grab my tits with both hands as way of greeting. It always caught me by surprise and felt a little intrusive. But I smiled and playfully, smacked him on the arm and said, “Hello,” as if nothing were wrong.

If having a decent rack was enviable by the other girls, I had them green with jealousy ten times over. I wore a size D but I probably should having been wearing a double. I spent a lot of effort trying to make my boobs look smaller. I wore baggy shirts, a bra that was too small, and always had a t-shirt on when I went swimming. Having large breasts was something I was embarrassed of and gave me an insecure self-image.

It may sound ludicrous to anyone out there who was compared to Kansas when they were that age, but the fact is that having bib boobs can be a handicap. Seatbelt straps were never comfortable and I could feel my breasts rub against my arms as I gripped the steering wheel. I gave up playing golf after a single outing with my parents because my breasts got in the way of my swing. It was hard to find shirts that fit if they weren’t cut in the style of a potato sack. It was even harder to find cute bras in my size. My friends all had them, but I needed to buy the ugly bras with inch-thick straps and a ladder of eyehooks on the back.

I was 17 when I decided to have breast reduction surgery. I sat in the plastic surgeon’s office flipping through a photo album of naked torsos. There was a before and after picture for each woman, most of whom were much older than me. The doctor and I discussed my ideal bra size, a B, and then decided I should go for a cup C. The doctor warned that a B cup might make me look disproportionate, like a Hershey’s Kiss (I was already a little bottom heavy and having the shape of a pear seemed much better than that of a piece of candy). Obviously the doctor had a good point, but I didn’t appreciate the reminder that I had what they call ‘child bearing hips’. It’s never been much of a comforting label, despite the good intentions behind the placating moniker.

My step-mom was called into the tiny examining room when it was time to disrobe for the doctor. I was wearing a huge, navy polo shirt. I took a deep breath and pulled my shirt over my head, tossing it onto the floor as I looked around the room for the reaction. Denise appeared to be holding her breath. I knew she was trying to mask a reaction of shock. I’d done a really good job of hiding my rack. “W-w-wow,” she stammered, “I didn’t realize they were that… that… big!” By this time, I’d undone the clasps of my bra and tossed it to the floor to keep the rest of my disguise company. Although it was embarrassing, it felt a little good to finally share my secret with someone.

Then it was time to add my photo to the scrapbook. It wasn’t easy. Earlier, I could barely say the word “breast” out loud to my doctor – I’d never openly discussed the topic with a grown man before. I knew I had to be mature about the situation, though, if I was to undergo surgery that would change my body forever. I was nervous that the doctor would see my embarrassment and question whether or not I was really old enough to make such a huge decision.

The surgery took place during summer break between my junior and senior years. It was the one time I felt lucky to have divorced parents living hours apart. I was able to spend a month at my dad’s house, far away from anyone who knew me, to undergo my transformation from “two handfuls” to one (that’s how the boys measured the size of tits in those days).

After a painfully long admitting process, I was finally laying in the cold, sterile operating room. I stared nervously at the tiles on the walls and ceiling as the surgical team prepared for my operation. A single file line of at least 8 doctors entered the room at one point. My surgeon told me that they were there to observe the procedure as he sat me up and began to draw lines on my chest with a big, fat, black magic marker. All embarrassment from exposing myself to my step-mom and having my photo taken instantly evaporated. Sitting before a group of people who were staring at my naked chest made me want to slink off the table and hide behind one of the nurse’s legs. Having things drawn upon my breasts, looking something like cubist artwork, felt incredibly humiliating. Thankfully the anesthesiologist gave me a nice dose of morphine to relax me after Picasso had finished his work. The surgeon counted down as I dozed off from anesthesia. 10… 9… 8…

I don’t know if anyone noticed when I returned to school that fall. No one ever said anything about it but I’m sure that they were just too embarrassed to question me about my breast size. My girlfriends were sweet; they bought me a pink polka dot bra to celebrate. My boyfriend broke up with me; I’m not quite sure he could make heads or tails of the sudden disappearance of my overly ample chest (Can you believe it? I never told him I was having the surgery and thought I could pull the wool over his eyes).

Having the surgery was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Finally being comfortable with my body felt like freedom. 14 years later, I have a drawer full of cute bras with thin, sexy straps. I can drive a car without the constant awareness of my chest and buy tailored tops that don’t burst at the seams. I haven’t tried golf again because I suspect that my swing is probably horrible despite the size of my breasts and I just don’t care enough to find out.