disappearing_boobsArticle By Michelle Ruiz

Missing: two once-perky 34Cs. Please return to owner, no questions asked!

I sometimes forget, mid-shower, whether or not I shampooed my hair just five minutes earlier. But almost 20 years since it happened, I still recall the moment when my boobs truly “arrived.”

I was 14, tap dancing in a magenta, crushed-velvet, turtleneck bodysuit at a studio on Long Island. One of my fellow tappers, a well-developed woman of 16, raised her eyebrows, impressed, as if to say, “You go, girl!” After class, she cracked, in the nicest way possible, that I should probably start wearing a bra to practice. (Though I’d been wearing cotton, clasp-front 32A Jockeys from the J.C. Penney junior’s department to school, they were purely ceremonial.) Apparently, I’d sprouted respectable, medium-size boobs over the summer—and they’d been flapping around during Time Step Two!

My cup literally ran over. As a late bloomer, I’d been waiting for my boobs since I tore through the Judy Blume canon at age 11. Dear God, I don’t really care about the period, but where are the hell is my rack? Breasts were a harbinger of womanhood, or at the very least teenhood. They were a sign that I’d one day shed my braces and bad “Rachel” haircut and graduate to my own phone line (never happened), a Sweet 16 at a neon-lit catering hall (definitely happened), and a social calendar stocked with dates. So when my knockers showed themselves in earnest that summer before ninth grade, I welcomed them with open arms and jazz hands…


To read the full article…

Please visit my articles page!