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My entry into 6th grade (1998) was a series of little traumas that everyone has probably experienced: Buffalo compensated, girls dancing to Billy Crawford at recess and I was learning that sport is a real subject. But above all, who says sport says locker rooms (I add pressure jogging to the list of traumas). And when I undress in the middle of my little friends, I notice that something is wrong: beyond the simple bra, some already wear bras. What? Damn it, it made them feel like they were on summer vacation: these things weren't there last year. After checking on my side, the conclusion is clear: something told me that it was not tomorrow the day before that my neighbor from behind was going to undo my bra in math class. There was still a long way to go ...
If I knew how to act as if nothing had happened with a lot of shapeless sweaters and questionable layers of clothes in winter, the arrival of spring and by extension of summer did not spare me. Beneath my best friend's T-shirts and tank tops at the time were breasts that were quite large for her age; next to her I looked pale. We were the Laurels and Hardys to the breast, "it's you big and me little." Or should I say the non-existent. Because yes, until the end of the 4th, I was completely breastless. That is a total of three years of absolute vacuum. So positive points: I was saving my mother a lot of bra-level savings, I was not embarrassed by playing sports (well, "" DO "" sports ...) and I naturally escaped the old joke " DIS TRUCK - POUET POUET ”.
However, I also suffered a lot of verbal abuse from the boys (always them) on the rise in hormones. I say "suffered" because yes at the time I did not take responsibility for anything from anything, in the middle of an ungrateful period when nothing was spared us and where I was reminded daily of my non-breasts. So I was qualified as boards of all kinds (wood, bread, ironing), some thought that my "breasts had gone on vacation to my grandmother" and let's end up beautifully: that "my breasts had gone down in my ass ”. For her part, my mother was trying to play down what could not be done anyway with a lot of "At your age I was the same." I assumed a convinced air, before returning to look at my profile in the mirror and invoke Sainte-Loches for a miracle to happen overnight.
The miracle didn't happen overnight, but on the eve of my entry into third. Only my girlfriends' breasts had continued to develop well and I was still accumulating so much delay. Red Lantern from the Bust I was. In the end, it was my arrival in high school a year later and the descent of social pressure that I felt that made me put my complex in perspective. While I let go of a lot of things (the dress style, my math grades, I said "shit" to my mom), I also let go of the pressure I put on my chest.
In the end, I’m showing a buxom 75A, a size I grabbed in 3rd and hasn't budged an inch since. So to counter this micro-size and the comments that could still be made to me, I took the initiative by starting to laugh about it, to make fun of this small size and to make fun of everything that had to do with it. Most of the time, people don't know what to answer, they seem rather surprised that I take it like that when in their minds having a small chest is a complex, and when you have a complex one does not cause it. I made it a strength and I dare say: that I assume.
The positive and negative points have changed: for the former, I do not suffer from back pain, pain when I run, I am not shy about sleeping and walking around for whole days without a bra is possible; for the latter, finding 75A bras without Hello Kitty or Pokémons on them is an obstacle course (for the moment only H&M makes me happy, this is an official call to other brands) and put on maxi necklines when we have a Canyon between the two breasts is frankly not always pretty (sorry Cristina).
Key moment, I still say that I was really less smart when I ended up for the first time in the dark and in a bed with my boyfriend at the time. This great stage in life (your body changes, no it's not dirty) has also helped me to assume myself on this side because I was "lucky" to come across someone who didn't didn't care much about having to do with a 90D or a 75A (I already imagined him laughing out loud with tears springing from his eyes, a la Looney Tunes; I think I had some nightmare once or twice).
The conclusion will therefore be as follows: in the end, the chest measurement is far from being as important as we would like us to believe. If the passage of adolescence is bound to be a bit full-bodied (but "This is the story of the 8th"), the rest needs to be much more relaxed from the rubber band. NO the guy you just passed in the street didn't stare at your no-chest (in fact he was looking you in the eye but that didn't even bother you); NO the girl at the pool isn't smiling because she's laughing at you (just that your swimsuit is so cute). And above all: NO your guy is not going to leave you because you do not exceed the A cup. If he dares to think about it, a piece of advice: run away. Quickly. Because guys who don't give a damn about your chest size, believe me, they do exist!
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