Hope Chest

When swimsuit season rolls around, I start thinking I might like to get me a set of boobs. I'd like to have a little more swell over the crest of my bra top. It'd be nice to turn a few heads to look at my rack. I don't really have a rack. In grade school, I was like all the other girls; I assumed I would grow some boobs. When I entered junior high and had to change clothes in the locker room, I soon realized that I was lagging behind. First of all, I didn't have a bra, which I remedied immediately that afternoon when I returned home from school. Mom had to take me to the store to get a "training bra" that day. It was stretchy and sort of like a workout bra today. My chest apparently wasn't up for training. I had bumps, but my God, some of those girls looked like Marilyn Monroe to my eyes. One weekend, I was at a sleepover with about six other teens. We put on our pajamas to eat, play games and tell ghost stories. Jeri, the hostess, kept her bra on under her baby dolls. I didn't really think anything about it. At one point in the evening, Jeri's mother came in to check on us and reminded her to take her bra off before she went to sleep. I suddenly realized why she had not removed her bra before. When she took off her bra, she took off her boobs. Eureka, I could fake my chest, too! Mom was again dispatched to help me find an appropriate faux bosom. This was okay for awhile. In high school, I purchased a contraption that looked like pink clamshells with a strong spring in between. I was supposed to press it in and out between my palms numerous times while holding it out in front of me for a few minutes every night. I used it for awhile but after my brother found it and I suffered the humiliation of having to explain its purpose, he gently told me that it would not work. My brother worked out daily with weights and knew what he ws talking about. At least he didn't laugh. I guess I would remain a member of the itty bitty titty committee forever. College was pretty cool. No one wore a bra and frankly, I looked pretty good. I pretended it was in honor of the women's movement which was in its infancy. If I had burned my bra, it wouldn't have made a very large flame. Boys seemed to like the braless look. My mother, however, was not a big fan. She assured me that I would regret it one day as my breasts would sag. Okay, Mom, first you have to have something to sag. I don't think I'll ever go under the knife and add to my chest dimensions. It gives me nightmares with Anna Nicole Smith, Pamela Anderson and that weird kissing bandit woman from Atlanta baseball games bouncing through them. I'm not greedy, but I'd just like to add a little more to my hood ornaments. In eighth grade, a friend asked me if I had a hope chest. Yes, I thought, I really, really, really hope I get a chest, but you know, I've never had any complaints.

(this is from this summer's writing project, but someone asked me to post it here)