Cowabungas

When I was about twelve, an amazing thing happened. I went from being the tall, boring, shy girl in my sixth-grade class to being the tall, boring, shy girl in my sixth-grade class with boobs. Two little mounds of flesh, no bigger than two ping-pong balls suddenly made all the difference in the world. Boys wanted to hang out with me, girls wanted to be me. And I hated it. At night before bed, when every other 12-year-old girl was praying for the breast-god to bestow such blessings on her, I was praying for mine to shrink. I slept on my stomach every night in hopes they’d get squashed and crawl back into the place from whence they had come.

But they stayed. They got in the way. They jiggled when I ran in PE. They made my shirts fit strangely. It seemed the more I tried to will them away, the bigger they got.

During the summer before seventh grade, I went to sleep-away camp for the first time. This meant my ample bosom was to be on display beneath my blue one-piece bathing suit every day at the lake. For the first few days I managed not to think about them. I splashed around playing Marco-Polo as happily as any of my flat-chested girlfriends. But one night after campfire, evil Katie Swanson told me that she had overheard the boys’ cabin discussing all the girls’ breasts. They were rating them on a scale of non-existent to medium to large. Hesitantly, I asked Katie what mine had been rated, though I didn’t really want to know the answer.

Smothering a giggle, she told me: “Cowabungas.” She started to laugh out loud. “Andy said yours were ‘Cowabungas.’”

Cowabungas? That’s not a rating! That’s not even a word. I only had B-cups at the time (not that I owned any actual bras). But apparently to a 13-year-old, a B-cup merits a “Cowabunga.” I was so embarrassed, I feigned a cold for the rest of the trip to stay out of a bathing suit.

The day before I started Jr. High, Mom marched me into JC Penny and made me buy a bra. I had been avoiding it up till then, despite the discomfort. I thought purchasing a bra would be admitting defeat. If I bought the invaders an outfit, it would be implying that I was okay with them being there and welcoming them to stay a while: “This should keep you cozy, make yourselves at home.”

“I don’t care if goes against your values, Audrey.” Mom was not supportive. “You need to start wearing a bra to school; you look like a hooker.”

I tried to pull the whole sixties/ bra-burning/ women’s lib thing on her. We ended up with two underwire Maidenforms and a cotton sports bra.

Last year’s ping-pong balls were already the size of tennis balls, which seemed to be morphing to baseballs. They just kept getting bigger. I was concerned that soon Michael Jordan would be able to dribble them down the court.

“It’s amazing,” My sister teased. “If you look really close, I think you can actually see them grow.”

My sister didn’t even get her period until she was practically graduating from college. It wasn’t fair. Why did I end up with this burden? No one in the family was large-breasted so it wasn’t genetic. I was just a freak of nature.

By the time I started high school, I had purposely developed an extreme slouch. I walked with my shoulders pushed forward and my chest sucked in an attempt to make my breasts stand out a little less. People tended to pay less attention to my breasts and more attention to my constantly worsening posture.

My C’s became D’s. My D’s doubled. My parents made me see a chiropractor about my hunchback.

But somewhere in high school, my attitude changed. I don’t know when exactly this mental shift occurred. Perhaps it was freshman year when Mark Chadwick and I made out behind the dumpster and he stuck his hand up my shirt. Or maybe it was sophomore year when I got my first serious boyfriend and he bought me endless gifts of lacey merchandise from Victoria’s Secret.

Whatever it was, my brain finally caught up with my body. I suddenly realized that there are a lot of things in this world that are hard to come by. There are challenges to be faced and goals to be obtained, and I had a free ticket. Two of them, actually.

This new way of life went into practice on my 17th birthday. My friends and I had driven into the city to check out San Francisco’s prime 18-and-over club. It was a dingy, sleazy place full of sailors and dirty old men. We were determined to get in.

The Bouncer at the door was not responsive to our pleas. “Girls, I can’t let you in. We don’t accept school ID’s. You’re age isn’t even on here.”
“But we drove all the way from Berkeley to get here.”
“Sorry, nothing I can do.”
“Please let us in, we’ll do anything”
“Nope, it’s not gonna happen. You’re not eighteen. It’s an 18-and-over club.”

And then something clicked. A light went off in my head. Or should I say, in my bra…
“What if I show you my boobs?”

Five minutes later we were shaking our booties on the dance floor, hitting on sailors and having the time of our lives.

From that night on, my life was different.

I don’t know what it is about men and breasts. I’ve never understood it and I maybe never will. But I know that I have them, and they want to see them. And thus, what used to be an annoying and cumbersome part of my body has now become a commodity. A means to an end. Currency.

At the bars:
“Can I get two rum and cokes for the price of one?”
“What? Of course not!”
(Pull the low neckline down a little, expose some cleavage, maybe a nipple or two…)
“Did you want limes with those drinks?”

At the hotel in Vegas:
“I’m sorry ma’am, you can’t get into this pool without a wrist band.”
“How about now?” (Simple untying of a bikini string)
“Will you and your friends be needing towels?”

Sometimes I may take it a little too far.
“That’s going to be $4.65.”
“How about now?”
“Lady, just pay for your cheeseburger and leave the restaurant.”

“Are there still no seats available on standby for the 8 o’clock flight?”
“Ma’am, please put your shirt back on and step away from the gate!”

I sometimes still get annoyed with the unwanted attention that is paid to my breasts. The stares I when I go for a quick jog around my neighborhood bug me. The leering old man in line behind me at the post office gives me the creeps. And once more, I will wish that I had nice, perky B’s. The kind of breasts you can wear a halter top with. The little nips that look cute with no bra and a spaghetti-strapped tank.

But then I think of all the things I have accomplished with this pair, and I display them proudly. I hold my shoulders back and stick out my chest. Back straight, chin up, twins at attention. And when sleazy men in cars shout out the window, or guys who think they’re flirting, or even my friends who are just curious ask: “Hey are those D’s or Double-D’s?”

I just smile and say, “They’re Cowabungas.”