By Bernadette Noll

Nearly twenty years ago I headed to the mall with my older sister to find my first bra. One of the nuns in school had suggested that the time for such a garment was looming — I had been oblivious of my budding boobs. So THIS was why they made it mandatory for seventh grade girls to keep their uniform vests buttoned! My sister, twelve years of experience under her bra, measured me for size. She marched boldly through the racks, picking out bras she thought both size-right and age-appropriate. I trailed behind her, afraid to touch the tiny plastic hangers, too embarrassed to even look at underwear that didn't come in a six-pack. Changing for gym the next day, a classmate spotted my 34A, blessed-mother-blue lace bra and promptly informed my nemesis — the seventh grade boy who liked to call me "Flatsy." Armed with this new secret, he was relentless. All through high school, each time I purchased a bra in the same size as the year before, "Flatsy" rang in my head. And then sometime after high school it happened. My chest grew. A lot. I didn't realize quite how much until I went home one summer for a visit. "Where'd you get those?" my brother greeted me. I had gone, at the ripe old age of nineteen, from an A cup to a C. I liked my new size. It was comfortable and suited my 5'10" frame. A C-cup sounded sizable, respectable even. I was as happy as Goldilocks with my not-too-big, not-too-small shape. I was not so large that I HAD to wear a bra, but for certain occasions the right bra could really work it. It was fun to have such a chest to ply and to play with. I could boost, lift, and separate, or I could go breast-loose and bosom-free. I could even call it a bosom. Then came pregnancy. Within minutes of conception I could feel the skin stretch over my expanding breasts. A couple of weeks later and I no longer fit into even the stretchiest of my bras. No big deal, I was used to going without. But my breasts seemed to grow more daily. Eventually size — and annoying stares from strangers — drove me to get fitted for a bra. No department store this time — it was specialty shop for these babies. The clerk measured my rib cage and her eyes lingered at my chest. She shooed me into the fitting room and followed with a handful of bras. "I'm guessing you're a G but let's take a look." G? Who ever heard of a G cup? What happened to double D? Even triple D? As I tried it on she shook her head. "I thought so," she muttered as she handed me another, one size bigger. Laughing to keep from crying, I wore it home. Knowing that this new H-cup me was only temporary I deemed to enjoy it. I felt like a little girl playing dress-up or Tori Spelling after surgery. It was fun but I was glad it was fleeting. I couldn't imagine toting these around for life. The inconveniences far outweighed the fun. In addition to being heavy, they garnered way too many unsolicited comments. And I couldn't even run a block without crossing my arms over my chest in a clutch hold. A couple of days post delivery I grew again. My milk came in with a vengeance and my breasts more closely resembled granite bowling balls than body parts. My husband and I marveled at their size and their firmness. They were just as I imagined silicone breasts to be. And then I realized I'd just spent $90.00 on bras! Now I had to buy more? Fortunately, once the babe took some of the milk, they returned to their size H selves. Again I laughed to keep from crying — this time at the thought of an H cup seeming small. Now that I'm breast-feeding, my boobs have taken on new meaning. They belong not to me but to my babe, and she could care less what they look like. It is her cry which dictates when and where I'll whip them out. When I'm finished being a food source I imagine I'll shrink back to a more manageable size. I'm sure there are women out there who'd enjoy such an ample bust. Some are even willing to pay big bucks to become so sized. I'm not one of them. I want the option of not wearing a bra. I want to run without an orthopedic device. I want to walk down the street unobserved, un-ogled. It's been a while since I've heard "Flatsy." Bring it on. Bernadette Noll is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas. On being a full-time writer, she says, "My life is forever colored by ten years in the restaurant business. It's always in the back of my mind that there is only one letter difference between writer and waiter."