It began as a whisper when I couldn't process Geometric proof by age 3. When I later showed no interest in fantasy novels, Big Sis brought it up in family council. But my parents reassured us that I was, indeed, a biological member of the family.
In college, I learned Punnet squares for a biology lab. We were supposed to test our own blood type and then run the squares to see all the possible combinations. I have A negative blood, so I realized that at least one of my parents had to have that blood type*. I called home to find out who it was. My mom informed me both were A positive, but that I really was their daughter.
Then last Saturday happened. Mom and I went shopping at Victoria's Secret. I needed a fitting, so I went to the back room with a clerk. My mom went to the area for "less voluptuous women" as the clerk informed her. Mom glanced at me. She definitely is "less voluptuous" than her daughters.
In the back room, there were 3 women and I. The 3 women were perfect plastic surgery models. I was measured twice. The saleswoman looked at me incredulously. "You're a 36-C."
I heard the other women gasp at this pronouncement of the mythological "perfect female bust size". One whispered, in a strangled voice, "They're real!"
I glanced up in my typical gloating manner just in time to see 3 sets of eyes evaluate every other feature. Their smug looks as they realized that everything else about me fails to measure up to purchased feminine perfection caused me to forget that, thanks to Lollipop-Land (aka Hollywood) a 32-B is now the ideal measurement.
I entered the dressing room and counted to 30. Then I requested, much louder than necessary, "I think I'm going to need that D after all." I felt quite smug at the groan next door. I wondered if all 3 husbands would find themselves paying for follow-up breast jobs so that 3 women much prettier than me could feel even more superior.
After 10 minutes with the "bra consultant" I had the IPEX in the right size. I've been excited about this style since I sat on the focus group to create it. It's revolutionary and it feels as great as I had hoped it would during design discussions.
I had little idea what had happened to Mom during this time. I found her outside with my niece. I ran over to her, excited to discuss the purchases (I really love Victoria's Secret for some reason). I asked her what she got.
Her face fell for a moment as she explained her predicament. "They don't have a bra small enough for me!"
I froze. That woman cannot possibly be my biological mother.
*Geneticists at the hospital have informed me that Punnet squares are to genetics what tabloids are to journalism - a bit of truth hidden from the whole story. It's entirely possible for both parents to have a different Rh factor from their offspring. It's also possible that my dad doesn't know his blood type since he hasn't been typed in 40 years. However, I do bear a rather uncanny resemblance to the mailwoman....
20 comments:
Just checking to see if my profile image works.
BTW, Omar - I'm still working with the Blog-god concept. If I ever figure all this out, it will appear magically.
Look, I’m not one to be too hasty, so I wouldn’t rule out the mailwoman just yet, but I thought you should know that suspected I was adopted for quite some time too. All of my sisters are fairly well endowed themselves. They take after my mother like that. I, on the other hand, am completely flat chested. I’ve considered surgery, but that just doesn’t seem right. Frankly, I’m sick of people looking me in the eyes when they talk to me. Just once I’d like someone to size me up like I’m some kind of piece of meat… Anyway, several months, a lot of late night crying sessions, a few thousand dollars and some medical tests later, I found out that there is a .0000002% chance that I might not be biologically related to my parents. Needless to say I was crushed by the overwhelming evidence. My parents still “claim” I’m theirs, but how can I not doubt them? My advice, just let it go. You’ll only be disappointed by the results. If they love you, that’s good enough.
But seriously, what kind of a retard can’t do geometric proofs at age 3?
*sniff* I went through 3 kleenexes reading your story. The only joy in life is knowing that your breasts say more about you than your words. What would it be like to never experience that?
Sure, if you're going to bring "love" into it. But when was the last time "love" left you an inheritance....
Thanks for being sympathetic about my preschool struggles in geometry. Big of you. Really.
It’s a living hell, I’ll tell you that much. I try to dress the part, show off as much eye candy as I can, but sadly, there just isn’t much to show.
Normally I try to keep “love” out of my life all together, but I thought that might matter to someone who couldn’t do geometric proofs at age 3.
You want to talk about sympathy? While I may have been able to prove undoubtedly that those two lines were in fact parallel to each other, what I could not prove was that I did not create the mess in my pants. Consequently I was kicked out of every preschool within a 50 mile radius of my home. At least you were potty trained.
Or, like me, you could be some kind of freak genetic throwback. Me: red hair, 36DD since age 16*. Parents: both darkhaired; mother, so flat she had to stuff socks into her wedding dress. (Because *her* mother had made it according to a regular female shape. Which she just didn't have.) However, I have seen pictures of my great-grandmother that leave only one question: how did the woman not fall over? How?
Oh, also: parents both highly talented gardeners, whereas I have what can only be described as black thumbs. That's my personal family shame. No one could compete with my dad for mathematical genius. Or with my mother for crazy. But the gardening - that, one feels, one should be able to manage.
_____
* Ahem. Not that I'm trying to upstage you or anything.
Re: the blog god, the important thing is that I won the competition. If or when you use it is entirely up to you.
Due to my affection for breasts and my marital status, I have accepted my lawyer's advice to not comment on the rest of this post.
But seriously, bra consultant? How well do you think that pays? Did you see any help wanted signs?
sorry, I'm done. no more comments.
The day they measured me at Victoria's Secret and pronounced me to be a 38C was one of the happiest of my life. Seriously. Both my mom and my sister are rather well-endowed and I spent the first 12 years of my bra-wearing existence as a measly 36B, and for the first half of that time only barely so.
Happiness is having breasts.
jon - it was all aboout the fastidious cleanliness. I gave a lot of hope when I self-potty trained at 6 months, but after that I became barely above average. The family copes, but I can see their silent hopelessness.
omar - I did contemplate the quandary I would create for you by posting this, but I can't pass up a chance to talk about breasts. And the blog-god is definitely in the works. I made some changes to the blog this weekend and the blog-god will play into the final look of this place. If I can keep from completely destroying the html code in my attempts to personalize.
scroob - my mission in life is to help every woman love and accept her breasts. See the good job I've done with Cate! I am, however, sorry that you missed the gardening skills. I suppose we are all disappointments to our parents in some regard ;)
Cate - now if you would only USE those girls a little...
Yeah, I may have been giving intellectual lectures at various universities across the country by age 4, but no one ever took me seriously because of my inability to make proper use of the toilet.
I also feel somewhat short changed by life due to my complete lack of breasts. I don’t think anyone will ever take note of because of my obvious lack. Honestly, I don’t know why I get out of bed sometimes.
I have to give you that one. I only had one brilliant, apparently 4-year old professor with bowel/bladder issues and I really didn't get much out of the class. And since i only got out of bed because I was excited about the new bra, I don't even have advice there.
(Actually, that just reminded me of a very funny story about a college professor's inappropriate comment on condoms. However, will refrain from telling new condom story for at least 1 week after posting about condoms.)
"but I can't pass up a chance to talk about breasts"
Me neither!!! Are we related? Aside from, well, lots of other things, we're exactly alike! I don't think I'm one of your parents though...
OK, I'm DONE. No more commenting from me on this subject.
I wear a training bra, but that just makes people smack me in the face and say, “what the hell is the matter with you?” And that’s people I don’t even know…
Ok I just have to add to this, even though I may be fired for even reading about breasts at work. I was a 36DD all through high school. I was a 38DD the first few years after my son was born. I am now a 42DD.
I am willing to donate to anyone who wants a transplant. It is the worst waste on someone who is single and who stopped feeling anything (in that area) after it was overused in high school. Plus my back always aches.
The worst part is not being able to shop at Victoria's Secret...they don't make 'em big enough.
Life is weird like that.
The poor-in-breast really need your help...I think you're in reduction territory.
But I'm sure the high school boys would like to thank you, although I doubt they remembered to say so.
hooray to women with fabulous boobs, as i count myself in that bunch, for certain ;)
also, i didn't like the apex. not sure why. but i'm glad you do!
your poor poor mother!!
also, i think you should post a pic of your boobs so we can all see ;) i'm sure omar would want it for scientific purposes
[begins reading prepared statement] (ahem) I feel like I might need to defend myself following that previous comment.
Women are not objects. The beauty they possess is not skin deep, they are wonderful individuals with minds, souls, and hearts. A woman is not just a conglomeration of body parts.
Furthermore, I don't need to see a picture of any of my blog-friends to know that you are all beautiful, wonderful people (or boyishly cute, in jon's case).
And while I think boobies are awesome*, I do not think they are the best part of a woman. That distinction is reserved for their minds.
--
*- I added that part after my lawyer helped prepare the statement.
**Standing Ovation for Omar**
Very well put...it's much appreciated :)
By the way, Glo...your mom and mine sound like they are built a like. My poor mommy doesn't feel like she's attractive anymore...it's cute to see my dad buy her stuff to help her feel sexier. (and yes, creepy if I think about it too much)
*Phew* Omar, you totally saved yourself form the pro-women rally I planned for your house this weekend.
Sam - that is sweet. I don't understand why women don't believe the men in their lives, but I'm sure I'll be the same.
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