Itty Bitty Titty Committee


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Romper:  Mya Romper from Tobi; Jacket: Thrifted from Buffalo Exchange; BagThrifted; Necklace: I have no idea; Hat: Ace of Something; Sunglasses: Oscar Wylee

Let’s talk about boobs. As a miniature person in stature and head (small head syndrome – is this a real thing?), I’m a pretty compact person. I’ve made peace with my mysterious decrease in height from the age of twelve to eighteen (from 5’3″‘ to 5’2″). My body decided that getting taller wasn’t a worthy goal to waste energy expenditure over, and my chest decided to play Simon Says with my disappearing growth spurt.

As an angsty teen, this was a disaster. I didn’t fill out any bikinis (I still don’t), I had to beg for a training bra when I was fifteen just so I could feel like I wasn’t being left behind after reading Dolly Doctor, and I was filled with the constant worry that I was doomed to be some sort of salamander for the rest of my life and that nobody would want me (except maybe to keep as a pet).

I had plenty of other body image issues. Silly, nonsensical worries over the non-presence of my under-eye bags, for example. I was so obsessed with my eyebags that concealer was the first makeup item I ever bought and used consistently. I thought my nose was too big, my arms were too hairy, my eyebrows not beaten into submission enough, weird knees – all of it. Luckily, I’ve grown out of most of my body issues since then, especially after dabbling in powerlifting and being the annoying friend who always seems to be at the gym. I’m proud of the body I’ve now built and am no longer ashamed of my hairy arms and lady-mo, no matter how hard my boyfriend tries to rile me up about it (as a joke – I want to be clear that he’s an incredible boyfriend because I know you’re reading this Hartley).

Breast size was always something that kind of lagged behind in regards to my personal acceptance as part of the package deal that is my body. Especially with the advent of the whole #BBG and bodybuilding movement on social media, it seems like everyone has a gnarly six pack AND huge boobs. Abs are achievable. Muscle definition is achievable. Bigger boobs are not. Unless I build my pecs to the point where they can masquerade as breast tissue, which is probably not something I’m keen on doing.

Coming to terms with, and celebrating my small chest is something that is still a work in progress. So many of my big-boobied friends exclaim, “But you can wear revealing tops without looking like a hussy!” and “You can go for a jog without your boobs flying everywhere!”, and that helps in reminding me that the grass is always boobier on the other side. I’m always like, “but you can wear triangle bikinis without looking like a four year old!” and “You probably wouldn’t have this problem where you buy a nice top off ASOS and it’s like they built a shelf to hold your baby in because no boobs”. Slowly, though, the counter arguments from the snide, image-obsessive mean girl in my head is running out of things to say, and it’s just a matter of time before I put a restraining order on her ass for good.

It’s important to be comfortable with the body you have. It’s important to work on it if that’s something you feel like you need to do. I’m starting to realize that all the time spent obsessing over a lack of cleavage or a stray pimple is better spent doing other things that are more important. Like scheming about how to take home dogs that aren’t yours, and eating protein ice cream for the booty. Who needs boobs anyway?

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