[Author’s note: The following blog contains frank discussion re: my boobs. Please advise my dad that he has to skip this one. Don’t tell him what it’s about. Just say it’s got something to do with, like, a Father’s Day surprise or something. Wait, don’t say that, because then I’d have to come up with an actual Father’s Day surprise. Just say it’s about my period. That’s somehow better than him reading about my boobs.]
I feel like when I die, if history is allowed to choose what’s written on my headstone, it will read KIM OJA: SHE HAD FREAKISHLY LARGE BOOBS. It’s basically my defining characteristic: curly hair, completely rectangular body frame, giant knockers from outer space.
This sounds as though I’m bragging, but honestly, it’s anything but. I’ve been lugging these things around since the third grade, and I’m honestly getting pretty tired of them. They turn any hug into a game of Invasion of the Inappropriate Booby Mashers, and any button-down shirt into a game of Unintentional Sexy Peek-a-boo. In fact, they really offer you only two sartorial options: something I like to call Sun’s Out Boobs Out, in which you basically have no choice but to appear as though you just walked off the set of a porno, even if you’re just trying to buy cat litter at Target, or Matronly Librarian Grandma, a high-collared, gunny-sack approach to hiding your dirty pillows entirely.
Also, once, I found a piece of granola under one of my boobs when I hadn’t eaten granola in at least 24 hours. Which is so super gross that I can’t even spend much time thinking about it, although I guess the lesson I learned there is that, in a pinch, I might be able to store snacks in there.
And I don’t even get to count them as Curves, since in order to qualify as being Curvy, you also need a small waist and bigger hips and ass. My hips and waist are the exact same size, and I have the flattened pancake butt of a 14-year-old boy, so basically I just look like a brick that someone taped two oranges to.
Things have only gotten worse since I gained a little weight over the last few weeks, since it appears that three fourths of that weigh has deposited itself into Left Boob, leaving Right Boob looking sad and deflated in comparison to her bulked up sister. Thankfully I’m able to camouflage it pretty well, but every once in a while I look down and it looks like someone just slapped some googly eyes on my chest and called it a day.
I know I shouldn’t complain about having something that other people literally undergo surgery to achieve. And I know I could undergo surgery myself, if it really meant that much to me. But every once in a while, they just become a little too much, and I want to take them off and leave them on my bedside table for a little while. Although I guess if I did that, where would I store my snacks?