In year five in school, I was one of the tallest kids in my class. My one growth spurt came and went like a fleet in the night. My doctor’s records will confirm (and my driver’s license will deny) that I am a miniscule 4 foot and 11.75 inches. When I was around 15 years old, I went in for knee surgery and after a round of x-rays the doctor, oh so nonchalantly, mentioned that my growth plates had fussed and I probably wouldn’t grow any taller. My dad was 5’4” and my mum is 5’1” so it’s not like I was expecting to be a WNBA star or anything, but stopping at under five feet always seemed like a cruel joke of nature. It wasn’t until I was 17 and truly discovered boys and how their brains work, that I realised my small height also meant small breasts. Now I don’t doubt my starving myself from the ages of 14 to 17 had an adverse effect on both my height and glandular growth, but there wasn’t anything I could have done to make a mountain out of these mole hills.

When I got pregnant, it was nice to finally fill up the entirety of my 34B bra, and once the baby came, actually have to get new bras to fit my new size. For two and a half years I enjoyed the ability to actually wear certain clothing styles, not have to worry about being mistaken for a teenage boy, and give nutrients to my son. It was like having the world’s coolest superpower! Yet, once my son could say, “Mother, dearest, I would like to nurse at your earliest convenience.” I figured it was time to stop (okay it wasn’t that bad, but at over 2 ½ years old it was getting too much). The first two weeks after weaning it was as if my breasts had been replaced by two over full water balloons. Then came the deflation. It wasn’t instant, but was more as if the balloons ended up with a small whole big enough for it to drip out slowly. Within a year of weaning B, I was desperately trying to find any 34A bras in the shops.

My little bundle of joy is now 8 ½ years old and I barely fill out a 34AA with a push up insert. I am divorced from his dad, and am living with a man I adore and who loves me very much. He says he doesn’t compare me to other women, doesn’t care the size of my mosquito bites, finds me very beautiful and sexy and that I don’t need to do anything to change my body. The reason I say ‘he says’ is because he does care in some ways. I’ve seen the things he and his buddies send to each other, I notice where his eyes focus on a woman who’s got more going on up top than me and every time I mention the idea of having ‘the surgery’, he doesn’t say ‘Oh no, baby, don’t do that’ but rather says things like, ‘well okay, if you want to’ and ‘don’t worry about how much it costs’ Hell, he even bought me an ‘add-two-cup-sizes’ bra from Victoria’s Secret for Christmas (which does help with the fitting into certain clothing items problem). I know my breasts are NOT the reason he’s with me. Which, I suppose for a woman with large breasts, she could be concerned they’re the only reason her man is with her. The grass is always greener where ever you aren’t. And while we, as women, fight with that desire to want what the other woman has on a daily basis, we hope to god/God/-od/Buddha/Allah/Krishna that our man doesn’t see the greener grass and want it more than his perfectly green grass on this side of the fence.

All of this male absurdity aside, it just proves the point that men have no idea what it’s like for a woman on a daily basis. For centuries, women have endured painful procedures in the name of glamour, fashion, and attracting a mate. Every few centuries the tides change and different attributes are considered desirable. Big hips, twiggy bodies, thin brows, unshaved legs, blonde hair, dark hair, large noses, small ears, lather, rinse, repeat. Well currently we are in a phase where fit, toned, tanned bodies with a bit of curve on top and bottom, long dark hair and strong facial features reign. Open any magazine, talk to any man, watch any movie, television show or surf the web. Men have it pretty simple. As far as looks goes, women have always (reference: Michelangelo’s David) liked strong shoulders, chiseled jaw lines, kind eyes, and nicely sculpted muscles, but no woman will be with a man just because of the way he looks, she wants to know his financial status, ability to be a ‘nice guy,’ attitude toward children, clean, loyalty and sense of humour. If they have all of that, they’re pretty likely to land a lady.

At any point in my life I can say that I have always felt like the ‘different one.’ I have always been told (even before I open my mouth), “You’re not from around here, are you?” Sometimes they’re right and I don’t fit in, sometimes I am in my element and feel perfectly similar but just don’t seem to be able to blend. When I first moved to BFE, Idaho, I found myself being asked that question every time I stepped my foot out my door. Maybe it’s the short, red hair, my stature, my lack of fat tissue on my chest beneath my nipples, maybe it’s the fact that I have a booty for a skinny white girl, my attitude and the way I, at four foot nothing, can command the attention of a room if the need and desire arises. Whatever it is, being labeled ‘different’ is something that you can hold close and use as an advantage, or you can allow it to break you.

So, all that being said, Friday I have an appointment to see a plastic surgeon. I have a million questions to be asked and would like to know and understand the reality behind the hundreds of options available. At the same time, it scares me, makes me feel sad, and goes beyond my most basic beliefs to even step foot in that place. To have balance I’ve started to research another side of things, the side where there are actually more celebrities, models, singers, actresses than you can imagine, that are in the Itty Bitty Club too. Keira Knightly is considered pretty hot by most men with a penis, and her breasts are flatter than mine. Her breasts were actually painted on for Pirates of the Caribbean (which by the way was quite common practice in yesteryear). Lea Michele is a Barely B. My personal idol Audrey Hepburn was exactly my size (except her teeny waist and extra 7 inches in height) and my husband is madly in love with her.

Implant history lesson: Vincenz Czerny was the first doctor to perform breast augmentation surgery. He used tissue from a tumor. Silicone implants were developed in 1961 by Thomas Cronin and Frank Gerow. The problems were abundant and many women today suffer from silicone poisoning due to leaking implants. And then there are people who claim manual manipulation is enough to encourage enlargement (including the Thailand Breast Slapping people). I tell this to my partner all the time (not the slapping bit), as I think it works to some extent.

So, you’ll hear more from me after Friday’s appointment.