Big Boobs & Jagger Lips ( A story about boobs, lips, fitting in, love, sisters, and undying love )
~It’s taken nearly thirty odd years, but I’m sort of, kind of, in fashion.
You see, I wasn’t always this cool and confident and amazing. In middle school, I developed boobs before any of the other girls in class, and believe me, I wasn’t thrilled about it. Not a single bit. I wasn’t like some of those females who looked forward to their chests filling out, or those who couldn’t wait a moment longer to purchase a lacy, Victoria Secret bra. Nope. I was not one of those girls.
In the midst of the super-models and girls who could go braless in gym class, I stood out. I was seen, or should I say, my boobs were seen. I wore a jean jacket to hide them, bury them in Calvin Klein. I prayed to Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, wishing they’d disappear. I wanted to be how I used to be. Boob-less.
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. For example, when we’d argue about clothes or chores or nothing at all, she’d usually end the arguments with something like, “Well, boys only like you because of your big boobies!”
That hurt. Bad.
But I knew what caused my sister pain, too. I must admit, she was pretty perfect, with those large doe eyes and flawless bone structure, but every female has her breaking point, and I knew all of hers. For one thing; she thought her lips were too large for her face. Hence, I had my ammunition and poison. I aptly termed her Jagger Lips.
“Hey, Jaaaaaaagger,” I’d tease. I was definitely more of a bitch than her; my venom flooded out smoothly, easily. Not only did I say the words, but I made a blubbering sound with my own lips after each sentence.
Anyway, in seventh grade, I attended a neighborhood party on 8th Street. How could I ever forget the most embarrassing moment of my life? I overheard Sam Asshole (not his real name) whispering to the other boys about the size of my boobs, how he was going to grope them during the pinning of the donkey game, how he was just the boy to get away with something like that.
Apparently, the Me, TOO movement was not a REVOLUTION back then. Sad.
My stomach turned upside down and inside out with humiliation, embarrassment, yuckiness. And I still recall my entire body catching fire. So that’s what harassment felt like, that’s what belittling sounds like. I told my sister about the incident immediately after I got home, and my words fell out like dirty water.
“He said whaaaaaat? He did whaaaaat? Are you kidding me right now?”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a smile like, yeah, that’s hilarious; it was more a smile of calculation, planning, revenge. I’ve observed that smile several times before. The familiarity, for once, made me feel secure, happy, protected.
Physically, my sister was strong as hell. I mean, she could take me down with her strength, muscle, and large man hands, but I brought her to her knees with my razor, sharp tongue, which I utilized with great articulation. She confessed in later years that she searched the dictionary for some of the definitions of my vast vocabulary, but found none. I shant go into those dictionary-less words in this essay.
At School next day, I noticed the Principal, Ms. Turnbloom, rushing fiercely to the back of the building. To this day, I’ve not witnessed a woman in heels sprinting that quickly. I can still see the blur of her navy blue feet like one of those cartoons in fast motion.
Were we having a fire drill? Was somebody having a heart attack? I followed her and half the student body out of the west end of the building, and the first thing I saw was my sister’s long black hair falling over Sam Asshole like an avalanche. She had him trapped against a basketball pole. “Don’t you ever…You will not talk to her…If I hear this one more time…How daaaaaare you” I’m not sure of everything she said, but he wasn’t uttering a solitary word.
I swear to god, I‘ve not been so exuberated in my entire life. I stood there laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing. I was laughing so hard, I believe I peed right through my beautiful bell bottom jeans. Ms. Turnbloom brought me into the office along with my sister, because apparently, laughing was just as inappropriate as talking about somebody’s boobs.
I couldn’t look at my sister after that without feeling a sense of pride, a sense of true sisterhood. I never told her, but I actually fell in love with her that afternoon in 76’.
I’m not sure about other girls, but Sam Asshole never uttered a single word about my boobs after that. Perhaps, like me, he understood what it felt like to lose a piece of his dignity that day.
Recently, after drinking several glasses of Merlot at a hip club downtown, I had an epiphany. I turned to my sister and shrieked, “Guess what? We are finally in style; you with your plump, non-surgical lips and me with my large, none-surgical boobs. Is that cool or what?”
Note: (My sister Kay loved this essay. She called and said, “I love when you write about me, Kimmy!” No love was greater than ours)