|
I had no idea how my sister, who was still wearing a training bra, knew more about a woman's body than me. More confused and curious than I was angry, I thought of calling my best friend, but she was usually more clueless than I was when it came to the surprising challenges of puberty. And I didn't want to ask my mom. If I had banana boobs she probably did too, and I assumed there was some reason she hadn't mentioned them before.
I had never been exactly proud of my breasts. Since my first period, I had imagined my body blossoming to look something like Sophia Loren's, who I idealized as utterly feminine. To me, Sophia's voluptuous cleavage, which seemed as though it would float off at any moment if not for the thin, clinging fabric covering it, represented womanhood. My figure was far less shapely, and my breasts more closely resembled deflating balloons, incapable of floating anywhere.
Later that night I was still wondering what it meant to have breasts misshaped like bananas. Would it be obvious? Would people giggle at me as I walked past them on the street? I couldn't stop staring at my chest in the shower. And I couldn't help noticing the slightly concave shape of each breast, how water quickly flowed down the slope and then slowed, hesitantly dripping off the edge of each nipple, the way water drips off the stem of a banana.
For weeks, I wondered whether or not to get surgery to look "normal." But the more attention I paid to breasts--mine and other women's--the more I noticed how unique each pair is, and how they resemble all kinds of food. Bananas. Cantaloupe. And when you're really old, eggplant. I wasn't alone. I was shaped just like everyone else, and at the same time, like no one else. And a year later, I wouldn't have to worry about being teased by my sister anymore, who got banana boobs of her own.
--Brandi
|
