Dedicated to Kay Marie who has given me the best days of my life…………………
~In sixth grade I was cursed with big breasts, and believe me, I Was Not happy about it. Not one single bit. You know the way some girls get all elxcited and idiotic declaring, “Hey, Mommy, I have some boobies now, can we please, please, please go pick out some cool, lacy, colorful bras at Target?”
I was not one of those girls.
In fact, I wore a faded Calvin Klein jean jacket to hide those babies most of the time, pretend they weren’t there, and hoped to God they’d disappear overnight. No such luck. They just kept damn well grooowing.
In the midst of the Twiggy lookalikes with taut perky ta-tas (Sue Rangy, I hate your guts) and girls who could go braless in gym class (Ms. Turnbloom was a Nazi bitch) I stood out like a circus freak. (At least I wasn’t the fat lady) that came later.
I still remember Turnbloom’s dark mustache twitching; her booming voice screeching like the Beast from “Beauty & the Beast,”… “Nobody is getting in the showers until Sisto does the rest of her jumping jacks.”
To this day, I believe Turnbloom wore long sleeves to hide the Swastika hidden discreetly beneath her massive Hulk Hogan arms.
Do you have any idea how difficult it is performing jumping jacks when one is well endowed and pissed off about that particular endowment in the first place?
Seriously, back then it wasn’t like one felt inclined to obtain silicone and surgeons to pump one’s tits up like bazookas. It wasn’t like one had to be like Heidi Montag or Porn-star- Pamela Anderson or a Playboy Bunny. It wasn’t as if one’s identity and self worth was determined by the size of one’s breasts.
At least; mine wasn’t.
Anywho, to make matters worse, my sister used my so-called-attributes to make me suffer. Sisters know the precise buttons to push; the buttons that cause small nuclear expositions and mustard gas to seep all over the place.
Osama bin Laden has nothin’ on my sister.
For example, when we’d argue about clothes or chores or boyfriends, she’d usually end the argument with something like, “Well, boys only like you because of your Big Jugs!”
But I knew what caused Sis pain, too. I must admit, she was pretty perfect, with those large doe eyes and flawless super model bone structure, but every female has her breaking point, and I knew ALL of hers. For one thing; she thought her lips were too big. Hence, I had my ammunition and poison. And my greatest venom has Always been my vocabulary. That is, if you want to call “Jagger Lips,” “Blubber Mouth,” “Dumb Shit”, and the “C” word part of your vocabulary.
To make a longer story shorter, that was thirty years ago, Chickadees’.
I’ve grown up. I’m wiser and more sophisticated today. I’m a woman, who has become empowered, and I’m happy to confess, my vocab is a little sweeter and less venomous.
So, that’s my story.
Now, excuz ay mua… I have a 7:00 date with Jagger Lips for our Wednesday night fitness class: Butts & Guts.
FYI: My jugs are still beautifully buxom… but now I have a slight problem with my astronomical ass.