The miracle of modern medicine
January 29, 2005 | 2:02 pm | Blog | Girly | 0
There is no better feeling than the feeling I get when I take off my bra. I spent 45 minutes tonight on my commute home thinking about how good it was going to feel when I finally got home and could change out of my work clothes and take off my brassiere.
For the past couple of years, I’ve lived blissfully bra-free. For a time in junior high and high school, I wore a bra for the specific value of padding. I even stuffed my bra when I was very young, and refused to let anyone feel me up, lest they discover my Kleenex secret.
Later, thanks to my California hippie friend Megan, I discovered the wonders of an underwire-free life, and stopped wearing a bra. After all, I had small breasts anyway — assets that seemed to defy gravity rather than adhere to it — and undergarments just seemed pointless to me.
When I was 18, I started taking Depo Provera, the birth control shot. I took it for six years, once every three months, mainly because it completely freed me from the burden of both premenstrual syndrome and bleeding. I loved Depo Provera, and despite what I read about other women’s’ experiences on the Internet, I never had any negative reactions to it.
But about three months ago, my doctor gave me a reality check.
It seems Depo Provera carries with it an increased risk of osteoporosis in women of menopausal age. Even though I’m only 24, my doctor suggested I get off the shot.
I would have said no, except for the fact that he bribed me with six months of free Seasonal, a version of the pill that causes you to have only four periods a year, instead of 12. “Try it for six months,” he said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll put you back on Depo.”
Who could say no to six free months of a prescription drug? Still, after six years of Depo, I had a lot of detoxing to do.
A few days into my new prescription, I began to notice a change in myself thanks to the hormones. No, not the crankiness, although it had reached new, previously unrecorded levels. Nor the sudden fluctuation in emotion. Nope. What I noticed most was that my boobs had gotten bigger. Much bigger. Like a whole cup-sized bigger, which is a major deal when you are less than a B-cup to begin with.
Suddenly, I was buxom. My large, child-bearin’ hips were now in proportion, when before they stood out as a distinguishing feature.
This may sound great and all, but it was horrible.
No longer could I sleep on my stomach — my chest actually hurt. My favorite work blouses suddenly began bursting at the buttons, literally begging me to let them out.
My boyfriend loved them, but had to love them from afar, since the slightest amount of touch caused me to double over in pain.
My girlfriends, and even my relatives, began to remark, “Man, your chest has gotten bigger, hasn’t it?!?
Still, each morning I would stand in front of the mirror, admiring my new profile. C would sometimes catch me and laugh.
“What?” I’d say defensively. “They’re HUGE!”
They weren’t really huge, but compared to what I had before, they were a definite improvement.
Then one morning I found the stretch marks.
Stretch marks on the cleavage-side of my right breast. Three of them, in all their righteous, red, raised glory.
I’m 24 years old, and I have stretch marks. On my breasts. I mean, I haven’t even had kids yet.
Suddenly, I want my A-cups back. My comfortable, no bra necessitatin’ A-cups. My non-saggy, non stretch-marked A-cups. I want them back.