I have small tits.
I mean, it’s not a secret. If it was, it wouldn’t be a very good one would it. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who meets me.
This is a topic many of my male readers might find difficult to follow. Men don’t really have a constantly visible body part that to some people defines their entire personality.
I got my first bra relatively late, age thirteen. It was a wonderful experience all in all. My mum gave me money so that I could go to a posh department store and have my first bra properly fitted. I was served by a lovely, kind, motherly lady who took to this milestone in a young woman’s life with the respect it deserved. She treated me like her own daughter.
There was a sign saying ‘women only’ when you entered the block of fitting booths. I was allowed in. I was a woman. The saleslady carefully measured me around and under my chest with a measuring tape she casually put around her neck before disappearing out and returning with a black lacy piece with the cups proudly standing to attention.
It fit perfectly.
“You will be needing a bigger cup size soon, you’re still growing,” she said gently with her dry, warm hands resting on my shoulders. Our reflections looked back at us in this small sacred moment of womanhood.
It never happened.
I went through the whole puberty thing. Nothing out of the usual there. I grew taller, my hips got rounder but the anticipated growth in my chest just never happened. I saw the trials and tribulations my friends went through with their ever-changing cup sizes and bouncy bits but my turn never came. Twelve years later I can dig out that very first bra and it will still fit.
The thing is, I don’t have a problem with it. It makes a funny anecdote that I can still wear my very first bra but there is no resentment behind it, which sadly is quite rare among small-chested women I think.
Maybe what makes my situation easier is that I don’t need to look far to find out phenomenon’s origins. When I see photographs of my mum’s side of the family, every woman displays the same body type: tall, skinny and small-chested. My grandmother and her three sisters all did modelling. My mum, their mirror image, was also approached by a modelling agency.
I never quite got to the modelling heights at 5”7 but otherwise I can just look at them and say with confidence that I follow my mum’s blood line of skinny small-chested women. Maybe it would be harder to deal with if my family was chesty and I was the anomaly.
Having small breasts holds a lot of positives: I’ve never suffered back pain or any other discomfort. I’m able to run, jump, fit into narrow spaces and sleep on my stomach without difficulties. On a hot summer’s day I can just leave out a bra and nobody will ever notice. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to suffer with any of the aforementioned and fail to understand why so many women purposefully seek out for it with implants.
I mean, I recognise that not everything is possible for me. I will never have a cleavage worth mentioning and a sweetheart neckline will never ever happen, at least not without tape, but you can’t win them all.
Unfortunately the representation of small-chested women isn’t very positive. I subscribed to r/smallboobproblems on reddit until I had to reverse my decision due to the overwhelming negativity. For someone who has never had any issues with my body on that regard it was saddening to find out that I was in clear minority.
Bar a few positive posts, the subreddit mostly consisted of questions, each stupider than the last: ‘Does exercise help?’ No. ‘Do creams help?’ No. ‘Would you gain weight for bigger breasts?’ Well no because it may not make a difference anyway. No matter what I have weighed it has never had any effect on my cup size, increasing or otherwise. Even if it did, would you risk your health for something as insignificant as that?
Listen, if you want bigger tits, you have two options: Standing up straight, which is what my great-aunt used to say, or getting implants. That’s literally it.
Maybe I’m having a hard time understanding the phenomena because the attention has never been on my chest. Luckily or unluckily every time someone makes any kind of notion about my body it’s about my legs. Legs always the legs forever the legs amen. Even though I’m 5”7 I have 37 inch legs. For a person of my height that’s a lot of legs. Long legs, short back and long arms.
I’ve got my dad to thank for that. Whenever we walk side by side my mum says that people may question whether or not she’s my biological mum but nobody can ever question whether dad is my biological dad. It’s so obvious.
I find solace with chesty women on this accord. It’s a pain in the arse having long legs. There is never enough room for me, I will never exit a car gracefully and finding trousers of any kind is a never-ending sorry tale. All of my chesty friends say they would take up on a reduction if it was offered to them. I’d be happy to have a couple of inches hacked off. But that’s never going to happen so I might as well make do.
When I was training as a journalist, we were taught to work with what we’ve got in a sense of physics. You can use your size to intimidate, draw attention, set up power balance in an interview. The thing is just to work with what you’ve got. Tall people were told to use their height to their advantage, short people were taught to get around catching attention in a crowded room by other means.
I love wearing short skirts and colourful tights. The fact that it will always draw attention is something I’ve just learnt to live with.
It does sadden me though that small-chested women are portrayed in the media always the same way: insecure and wanting to get surgery. I can understand breast reductions for health benefits, but breast implants literally serve no other than cosmetic purpose. If I was offered free implants, I’d say no. I’m so much more than two reservoirs of fat in my chest meant to feed any of my future offspring.
This is also my message to every woman who has ever struggled with their bouncy bits, big or small.
There is nothing you can do about it without a surgeon’s knife. It’s literally in your DNA. You might as well like yourself the way you are.