I had just finished taking a shower and found myself in front of my bedroom mirror, about to disrobe. I slowly removed my arms from my toweling gown and stared at my chest. Two little lumps much like mini bread rolls, stared back at me, with a void between them that was generous enough to squeeze in a third. Mixed emotions rushed over me as I struggled to decipher whether my small bosom is an unappealing, sad state of affairs, or simply a genetic trait passed through my family.
Even in my mid-twenties, the size of my chest is almost identical to what it was as a preteen. At that age, I very comfortably pulled on a training bra and went about my day without a care in the world of how my choice of brassiere compared to that of my classmates. However, once I hit eighteen and noticed that training bras were still my only option, I was met with a sense of agitation and frustration.
During my high school years I developed a lingerie fetish. My friends knew only too well that every time we passed a lingerie store at the mall, I was sure to pay it a visit. I was mesmerised by the intricate patterns in the lace, carefully placed over the glimmering satin of the bra cups, held together by a diamante clasp. To my dismay, none of them were available in my miniscule, increasingly uncommon size- 32AA.
Unless of course I was happy to don a push-up bra, which came in 32A with a rather good fit. Push-up bras can be utterly gorgeous and at this point, my underwear draw is filled with 10 neatly packed, 32A samples of them. Nevertheless, what’s a girl to do when she falls in love with one that is not of the breast enhancement variety? All I can do is walk way, sometimes in the direction of a rail of dresses.
I had my eye on a sundress with a romantic floral print, the perfect match for my favourite wedge-heeled espadrilles. I was delighted to find that it was a size 6 until I noticed that it was also strapless, making it completely impossible for my poorly endowed bust to hold it up. At least I found solace in the fact that I could buy a cute top- as long as I remembered to buy a pair of pants one size bigger. I am blessed, or maybe cursed, with a derrière so large that if my boobs were chicken fillets, several of them would be needed to fill it up.
Men, especially those self-professed “butt guys” may appreciate that, although what they would have to say about my boobs is up for debate. Being a happy bachelorette without plans of marrying in the near future, I can’t be bothered with their opinions. Yet, I do sometimes wonder what goes through the mind of the similarly small-chested girl who doesn’t share my sentiment. Does she feel inadequate at the thought of not living up to male expectations of a desirable damsel? Is she in angst about her future husband being taken aback when he sees her without a bra for the first time?
If the sight of her, lost in ecstasy in the wake of his touch, is of any satisfaction to him, he wouldn’t be. Because of the low amount of fatty tissue, dainty bosoms are more sensitive and can be more easily aroused than larger bosoms. I suppose that if I ever do find my Prince Charming, that would be something to look forward to. If I’m really lucky, perhaps he will have the riches of royalty? English and Malay researchers found that wealthier men are more tempted by modest busts, whereas those less financially stable are lured by bigger busts.
Male preferences aside, being the owner of a set of less plump boobs is not all doom and gloom. When reading about the daily tussles of my fuller-breasted sisters, I realised that I sometimes take for granted the perks of barely filling an A cup. For starters, given that my boobs resemble two fried eggs when I lie down, sleeping on my tummy is an absolute pleasure. Sitting at my desk or standing up straight is no trouble either, as I don’t have to endure the back or neck aches induced by a hefty chest mass. I doubt that my small, fragile frame would be able to handle it.
Not having to deal with the extra weight also means that there is less flesh to sift through during breast examinations. I can’t skimp on these because being a member of the tiny tit club, even if I was the president, does not make me immune to breast complications. Alas, it doesn’t make me exempt from exercise either. Although I am unapologetically averse to exercise, should I make any attempt at a workout, my boobs are unlikely to behave like bouncing bunnies. As for under-bust sweat, the thought of it doesn’t even occur to me. I am only too grateful to be spared of that ordeal.
Keeping these perks in mind makes me slightly less sorrowful in the event that I can’t find that sultry bra in a 32AA, and not as envious of the ladies who can gleefully adorn their bosoms in a bigger size. However, it is not the plusses of fitting into an AA cup that bring me peace of mind, but the fact that no matter what my cup size, I am still a complete woman. My petite bosom is not a defect that represents a lack of femininity. Instead, it is an expression of my femininity.