When I was 25 years old, I gave birth to a set of twins. However, unlike the fat little cherubs who become the target of strangers' coos and kisses, these puppies were strapped to my chest and I quickly realized that, much to my chagrin, the girls were fraternal.
Let me back up. While many girls pray for the day when they become women, I found myself thanking God that I was, mercifully, a late to non-bloomer. Thanks to a combination of disordered eating, illness and a self-designed workout routine that relied heavily on chest presses, I managed to keep my secondary sex characteristics on the DL for the better part of a decade, allowing me to remain breastless and braless well into my 20s.
After years of torturing myself into Limited Too tank tops, I came to the realization (with the help of some serious therapy, one too many trips to the hospital, and some very helpful antidepressants) that life was too short and croissants were too delicious for me to spend one more day depriving myself.
So I ordered a turkey sandwich. And the next day, I had a latte. And the next day, I ate a banana for the first time in 6 years. While my calorie intake was far from Phelpsian, my sad, furious little body held onto every spoonful of cereal like another meal might never come my way, and, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, I packed 40 soft, jiggly pounds onto my 5'4" frame.
When my breasts first appeared, I treated them in much the same way that I might treat a horn I had grown in my sleep. I held them, stared at them, and constantly checked in on them to make certain they hadn't disappeared. While my right breast had developed into a full, rounded, cleavable C cup, the other girl had obviously reaped fewer benefits from my newfound joie de feed. My left breast had, in what I can only imagine was a nod to its profound sadness at its stunted growth, grown into a pert little teardrop-shaped mound, sitting inches higher than her partner. I can say with complete honesty that it was the only time in my life I've been less than thrilled to receive a B.
It stood to reason that, much the slight differences in the size of my hands and feet, there would be some difference in the size of my breasts, but nobody's ever stared at my hands when I'm having a conversation with them, and my fiance's not in the habit of motorboating my feet.
While my new breasts have never been the object of scorn or derision, thanks in part to my "If you don't like my body, I'll put my clothes back on and excuse myself from this art class/office/Chuck E Cheese" policy, they haven't gone unnoticed by my sexual partners. One such companion joked, "It's cool that they're different. It's like getting to be with two girls at once," but for the most part, the response to my boobs has been, "OM NOM NOM NOM."
Dressing mismatched bazooms has proved more of a challenge any time I'm not wearing a sportsbra, skintight halter top, or incredibly confusing combination of the two. While I don't go into dressing rooms screaming, "I am asymmetrical, hear me roar," I've often incorrectly assumed that female salespeople might have encountered this problem in the past. When trying on wedding dresses, the otherwise lovely saleswoman found just how futile trying to get my girls to meet in the middle can be. While pouring myself into a dress, she kept chanting, "Lift that one higher! Higher! HIGHER!" While I'd love breasts that I could conveniently tuck under my chin when not in use, I had to explain that it simply wasn't going to happen.
However, with the aid of the Internet and a few dollars, I found a few ways to make Biggie and Tupac finally get together and see eye-to-eye.
Braza Silicone Dolly Super Wedge Push Up Bra Inserts
In 6th grade, I remember looking on in confusion as one of my classmates entered our classroom having grown enormous breasts over summer vacation. My friends and I, too young to fully appreciate the mechanics that led to such a staggering development, would discuss how this could have possibly happened and ponder how and when our bodies would follow suit. The only thing we could all agree upon was that we would never stuff our bras, for fear of being found out as cheaty little liars.
While I might not wear a fake ass or bra inserts on a date where I'm confident someone's going to see me naked for the first time, I have fully embraced the fake it 'til you make it strategy when it comes to feeling good about myself on a day-to-day basis. My hair isn't naturally straight, my skin isn't naturally tan, and my boobs only look like perfectly round little melons when I've stuffed one or two of these wobbly little guys into my bra. If I'm not apologizing for my near-daily eschewal of cute underwear in favor of nipple-high ultra Spanx, I'm sure not going to apologize for being a grown-ass lady who stuffs her bra.
Why are we as a society not having an open dialogue about the many wonders of the racerback bra? In my never-ending quest to fake the appearance of a perfectly symmetrical chest, I have found no greater ally than the Gap's wireless bras. These over-the-shoulder boulder holders have adjustable straps, meaning you can alter them for pretty much any garment you might be wearing, including, but not limited to: T-shirts, jumpsuits, overalls with no shirt underneath, those confusing dresses where it looks like someone ripped off one of the sleeves but it turns out that's just a thing these days, and a slave Leia outfit. Securing your bra on the tightest hook, adjust the strap on the smaller of those puppies all the way up, lean forward, and voila! Instant cleavage.
My motto for the last ten minutes since I thought of it has always been, "When in doubt, spray it out." I'm a huge proponent of Downy wrinkle release spray when I'm too lazy to iron something, dry shampoo when I'm too lazy to wash my hair, and a spray tan when I'm trying to cover up my shockingly translucent skin.
While you can always get this professionally done for about $60, I'm always on the lookout for cheaper alternatives to beauty treatments that don't require me baring my goods to total strangers. With just a hint of sunless tanner applied around the top of your breasts and between them with a makeup sponge, you can easily enhance what your mama gave you. I'm partial to Quick Tan's version because it's not streaky, it doesn't give you the beta carotene OD color that a lot of other sunless tanners do, and, perhaps best of all, it makes you smell like you a Krispy Kreme.
What are your other tips for making the most of a mismatched pair?