My boobs took me by surprise. I may as well have been wearing a blindfold, the way they managed to sneak up on me. At twelve years old, I was flat-chested and glorious! I was free to stink at both kickball and dodgeball without worrying at all about bouncing breasts. Life couldn't have been better.
That is, until the day my younger sister saw me changing into my pajamas and questioned me about my "lumpiness." She was right, my breasts had grown...just enough to be called breasts. I was happy and thought to myself, "Well, they're here. But at least they're small." But I was wrong, so so wrong. Man, did my boobs grow fast! Every day, it felt like my shirts were a little snugger than they had been the day before. By the time my mother convinced me that it was time to go buy my first bra, I was nearly a C cup. I felt like I had gone from normal to completely deformed in just a couple of weeks.
But the size of my breasts was not the only thing about this whole puberty ordeal that shocked me. The skin under my arms and on top of my breasts was sore and a little uncomfortable. Soon, I could see little lines running up and down my skin where it had stretched to accommodate my ever-growing boobage. I was so embarrassed. It looked like someone had grafted my boobs onto my chest with bruise-colored thread, Frankenstein style. I hated my stretch marks more than I even hated my breasts...my breasts, which never failed to draw comments from absolutely everyone with eyes in their head.
