Growing up, I used to wish that my body would hurry up and hit puberty. All I wanted, more than anything in the world, was a pair of boobs. I just wanted to grow a set. Every night, I talked to God and tried to barter for a pair of nice round melons. I was one of the last kids in my junior high to hit puberty. You know that girl. The one where the boys would snicker and yell out that about me her being a carpenter’s dream when I she walked by. Flat as a board, never been nailed. The girls weren’t much better as they would adjust their bra straps and stare at my flat expanse with a knowing sneer.

Bitches. Eventually, I grew boobs. Sure they were little, hardly more than bee stings, but they were proudly protruding. I kept thinking they would get bigger. I was a fairly tall girl, and I’m from a family with some fairly impressive bazongas. My grandma’s boobs were so big and heavy, her bra cut into her shoulders and left permanent scars. My mom’s hooters are a fair size and my sister had a bigger rack than I did by the time she was 13. And I am three years older than she is. I have several cousins who’s one boob is bigger than my head. To my line of reasoning, I figured one day I would sprout a Dolly-like rack, like the rest of the women-folk in my family. So I waited, rather impatiently, for my body to catch up with my imagination. It never occurred to me that I would be the willowy, thin athletic girl. Nope, surrounded by mammoth mammaries, I wanted to be part of the crowd. I wanted to be able to tell a boy ‘hey, my eyes are up here.’ How marvellous it would be to have a boy stare at my chest and wonder what was under there.

One day, I went to my girlfriend’s house and we were talking boobs. Well, we were talking about boobs, but I’m sure we were boobs as well. After all, we were 15 and we thought we knew it all. Her mom, a very nice woman with an impressive endowment herself, overheard our conversation. She informed us that we couldn’t consider ourselves as having cleavage until we could stand in front of the mirror and make the girls jiggle and bounce.

My girlfriend had no issue with this, as she was already sporting a C-cup. But me and my nipples took umbrage with that statement. For years I stood in front of a mirror, with my shirt off, and tried to shake them bigger. Anything to get the girls to bounce.

I don’t recall when it was exactly that I grew my set. Suddenly, they were there. My husband (then boyfriend) liked to say they were perky. And that anything more than a handful was a waste. Problem is, my husband has freakishly large mitts. But the good man he is (read: Smart man who wanted to get laid on a regular basis) never made me feel like I was a walking plank.

While I don’t remember when I finally hit puberty, I vividly remember the day I woke up with milk-engorged boobs. Holy Mother of GAWD! My husband and I marvelled at my new found lushness. It was a miracle. Suddenly, I was tall, thin and I had BOOBS! For those few months, it didn’t matter that I sprayed milk like a geyser just by thinking about my baby, I finally had my girls. Ignorantly, I believed my titties would remain inflated. Imagine my shock and horror when they suddenly started to deflate. Not only did they get smaller, but they got softer and doughier. Freaking lovely.

Now I was saddled with itty-bitty titties that sagged and stretched out, like my own little beaver tails. Where’s the fun in that? I have since lived with my sad little guns, rolled shoved into a padded bra, and I try to tell myself no one notices. Boys are attracted to my sparkling personality and quick wit. Girls only see a woman’s hair and shoes, so I should be safe if I keep those bases covered. RIGHT???

Who cares that when I lay down in bed the girls disappear into my pits, leaving me looking like a prepubescent twelve year old boy? (Minus the hairy beaver of course.) The hubs still loves me. The upside to my after-child rack is they now jiggle. Boy, do they jiggle. And bounce. And flap around. Good thing they are little, because if they were any bigger, I may lose an eye while performing certain, ahem, activities. If you know what I mean. Wink, wink.

Recently, I have noticed my bosom is a little larger. I’m not sure if I’ve gained some weight, or if I’m having an allergic reaction to my dust bunnies. Either way, the gap in my A-cups has gotten smaller. I’ve actually had to take some padding out! My hubs thinks it’s because I sit on my ass and blog all day, while stuffing my face with bonbons.

I have another theory. I finally figured out how to grow the girls. After several months of exercising the chest region, my melons have finally responded.

I’m thinking of starting a marketing campaign. Taking out a patent on my idea. It’s aimed at small chested women. A Safe And Easy Way to Grow Your Guns!* Just follow my instructions and soon your breasts will be one size larger.

The secret to my success, the trick to enhanced cleavage:

How much do you think I should charge for this fountain of knowledge?

*Disclaimer: Not for the faint of heart or the queasy. Call your doctor if bleeding occurs.

Edit: I apologize to my daughter Fric, in advance. Years down the road, when you are a young woman and you read this post (or when you are in high school and learn to hack into the ole computer) I want you to know that I pierced my nipples in moment of insanity and grief. There was no actual benefit to their size (except when I hiked them up with string and tied the string around my neck.) Nor was the piercing of any sexual value. In fact, the jewellery is a pain in the well, tit. Literally. I also apologize if you happen to inherit my hooter dna instead of one of your large breasted aunts or grandmothers. But remember: Kleenex is a poor bra filler. The silicon chicken cutletty things work much better. Learn from your mama. I speak the truth…