Yes, we can talk about my b00bs.

The traffic light turned red, so I had to stop. It was zero degrees Celsius, and the trees were bare without leaves, but there was no snow to pile on them. Just the dry cold of the climate crisis, the kind that makes the nipples freeze, stick out on the dry-fit synthetic Nike shirt I was wearing. I started jumping in place to keep my body temperature and heart rate, which was in zone 3-4. In my headphones a techno party was going full on. It was an easy run on a winter afternoon in Budapest, nothing out of the ordinary. I noticed 3 men next to me checking me out. I was wearing long black tights, turquoise running shoes, black shirt. I wondered :Had I gotten too excited with the headphone party? My mind was already telling me stories about how they saw me and laughed, “What a weirdo she is”. I had already gotten used to being the outsider, and I was learning over the years not to attach importance to the way people looked at me. It was theirs. Meanwhile, the strap of my bra had fallen to my shoulder, but it was on the inside, it was mine. It was a relatively wide, thick bra strap that became narrower the closer it was to my chest.

I was 12 years old when my grandmother first took me to the department store to buy a bra. I was among the last in class to get a bra, not because I was the last to grow tits. quite the opposite. I renounced the process that was created below my neck, while everyone else in my class, boys and girls, made it clear to remind me every day, especially in sports classes. Yes, this was me, BBB – bidi with the big boobs. bouncing bidi. you name it. the chubby girl from the last row.

So on the third floor of department store, there were those old ladies offering a selection of huge tents perforated with floral lace that reminded me of the second layer of a curtain in a grandmother’s (or aunt’s) house. It seems like a big variety to chose from, but it really isn’t: the bras came in sizes from extra large to frighteningly huge, they had a prominent triangular structure, color tones like- cream, beige, light white, No matter how you tried to embellish the description with a romantic image, I chose to call it a yack-yellow color that reminded me of Saturday night vomit after mixing cheap vodka, gin, and beers. In high school, when all the cool girls in the class were showing off their tops with colorful prints of sunglasses and teddy bears, I found myself crying in the fitting room as that lady- aunt (not my aunt) with a heavy Russian accent arranged the fat on the sides of the bra, with her red painted nails matching her lipstick (that went a bit smeared on her teeth). She pulled my breasts from the inside out, explained me that’s how it should be, stretched the straps, as they pressed to a certain limit. It was annoying, but not painful. she assured me: “That’s the way it should be, it would expand later.”

Even today, while buying pants, I wonder, should I take the ones that press a little, that you have to keep your stomach in, hoping that in the future I will fill them in, or should I take those allegedly “perfect” size pants that, when they expand, they will no longer be flattering, but will look soggy, big and tired. Good thing is that I will be able to expand into them, something I’d rather not.

Towards the end of high school, I had an exemption from sports classes. Everyone laughed at me anyway, and I was on a fast track to blackened lungs. At the age of 17, I smoked regular cigarettes, and “special” ones as well. Every weekend, we went to a club downtown to dance to dark music. It’s not black music in the sense you assume; hip-hop is for the cool. We were the outsiders, happy to be depressed. We were into EBM, synthesizers, Depeche Mode, Nine Inch Nails, dark electro, and a bit grunge to spice up. The final exam in sports class, 2000 meter run, I barely finished on time for a passing grade. I believe, the teacher took pity on me, so she faked the result from the clock.

Now this is how patriarchy works: when you go on a date with a man, he wears pants, and there is a bet you take. Will he have a large or small d**k? Thick or thin? With a pink tint in the cap? Does he know how to use it? Who knows what he hides there, one egg or three? I mean seriously, it’s almost impossible to guess.

As for women’s boobs? We’re exposed no matter what we wear. Standard deviation could vary up to 20%. You can easily recognize a padded bra, you can give a general estimate based on the body shape of the woman standing in front of you, whether she has a large or small bust. Even all these high-tech bras, pushups, and minimizers, to what extent can they amend reality? Drop half a size? Add half a size? The bet you take on the size of the woman’s breasts in front of you is a much wiser, calculated bet than my ability to estimate the size of your penis based on the length of the knuckles of your index finger and the difference between it and the ring finger.

What the hell was I thinking in 2017 when I started running?! forget about the heavy breathing and excess weight, I can overcome all of these, but the monuments in front, what the hell?! After all, it’s clear, in every picture they steal the attention, no matter from which angle.

A good article is always backed with data, so here is the important and interesting data that might brought you to read this. Yes, dear readers, my bra size is D80 (Eu), which is a US size 36C. This is the current measure, as of today, but it was not the case 20 years ago. At the age of 19, I was almost 2 cups up, throughout adolescence I hated my body, it just continued to grow and fill with fat and hair, and discharges. My back hurt. The bras became more lacy and uglier and were pressing and creating an ugly valley on my shoulders. To top that, everyone laughed at me. The more they laughed, the more I walked bent over and I just wanted to hide, yet I had nowhere to go. The doctors recommended to have a reduction surgery, and you know what? I did.

20 years later, here I am, a runner. Long distances, marathons, trails,I stand by the brand. Yet, being the Millennial that I am, my running technique quite nineties fashion: Pamela Anderson style. On the way to save the world, in slow motion, everything bounces.

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