a woman of substance: the essay that started it all

When I first heard about the pencil test I wasn’t at all tempted to try it. There really was no point; I knew what the outcome would be, so why bother? Every adolescent girl somehow knows about the pencil test, it is inherent. My friends conducted the test in the girl’s bathroom at Henry David Thoreau Middle School. Tabitha went first. The test is simple enough; try to hold a pencil horizontally under a naked breast. If the pencil stayed without assistance, the testee was officially a woman. Tabitha failed; as did Jenny. I did not take the test that time, and truth be told, no one wanted me to, it was clear that I would succeed where they had failed.
At the age of 21 a friend reminded me about the pencil test, and since my womanhood was no longer in question, we took the test just for fun. I passed with a pencil and started to look around for other testing items. By the end of the rather ridiculous afternoon I had passed, one at a time; a full can of Diet Coke, a student planner, a sneaker, a set of “Gilmore Girls” DVDs, and the 989 page Dickens novel “Bleak House”. It was a fun afternoon, a great moment for me and my breasts, working together towards a common goal. We don’t always get along so well.
I have been thinking ill of them since two weekends ago when my friends and I went outlet shopping. In any lingerie store there are two basic varieties of bras. The first is an accessory. The accessory bras have lace, they have patterns, they are pretty. There is really no function to them at all; their only niche in life is to be cute, like nail polish or a barrette. The second species of bra is the functional bra. These bras know that they have a job to do. They are not pretty. They come in white, black and beige. These industrial strength bras have a solemnity to them, an awareness of what will be expected of them and they seem to be constructed of chicken wire and upholstery. These are the Rambos of bras. These are the bras that I own.
My friends and I found a lingerie store that was having a sale, so I picked out three “come to grandma” lookers and went up to the register. The attendant looked at the bras I had handed her, then looked at me. “Honey, these ain’t gonna fit you” I shrugged and said that the 40 DDs were what I could find among her selection. “Hang on.” The woman emerged from behind her counter and whipped a measuring tape from around her neck. Then, without my permission, she proceeded to measure my breasts. “Honey, you need a 40 I.” I was stunned. I. IIIIIII. I could not believe it. “Ok, thanks” I stammered and left the store. There is nothing in the world that can make a woman feel worse about her body than the knowledge that part of you is so big that you no longer fit into standard sizes. The part that really irritated me however was that I fit a DD not too long ago; which means only one thing, that at the age of 21, officially a woman, I am still under construction.
Puberty is such a strange thing to happen to people. Until then you have been growing up, but in a nice predictable way. And then wham, your body turns into your worst nightmare, its not what you remember, it barely has anything to do with you anymore. It’s like meeting your roommate at summer camp for the first time; And, this will be your body, you two will have so much fun together! And mostly it’s ok, because everyone else you know is going through basically the same thing, you can commiserate and strategize. Unless you are doomed to large breasts, then you are a threat to all girls. Adolescents somehow know that breasts are men magnets, and though no one at that age would be putting theirs to use for quite some time, it is nevertheless recognized that breasts are important. They are your trump card but hardly a secret.
Meanwhile, they’re still there, attached to you, as you go about your mundane life. Exercise affects them like a bowling ball affects a water bed. Sports bras are an oxymoron: Above a cup size B, they are all marked for “low-impact” exercise, as if, for a woman above a size B there were any such thing. Breasts move if they want to. The reason that you don’t see runners above a cup size B is that they would end up with black eyes and bruised knees. Mine tend to knock things over, or type without my knowledge. If I am leaning over my computer, they will, unbidden add text to my papers, or worse, delete text. Friends of mine have started to use these bags of fat as a measurement. “How big was the TV? Oh about two and a half Ariel Boobs.” Breasts in general are heavy, largely parasitic lumps whose usefulness is restricted to those few months crucial to the survival of the species. Otherwise, their main activity is to florp. And of course to sell things, and to be the punch line in thousands of B-comedy jokes. The fact that they make us buy things and we love to laugh at them means that something about them makes us uncomfortable. Why are we so driven to watch them? Think of the trouble Marilyn Monroe went to to convince the public that she was harmless. It’s OK honey, I’m in no more control of this than you are. But, in fact, we are. Women do have a measure of control; flatter or hide them, let them free or fence them in. Since they are the only way that western women are encouraged to be big, they can be avenues towards liberation and self-love.
But I had better be done, that’s all I’m saying. If I wake up tomorrow and face yet another letter of the alphabet, there will be hell to pay. My wrath will probably fall on my 7th grade health teacher who led me to believe that puberty eventually ends.
So, what effect have my 40 Is had on my life? Well, their greatest impact was that they shaped me just as they shaped my tee shirts. Adolescence requires rebellion, and my fight was against the Hooters waitress cliché I was apparently destined to become. I was determined that what was above my shoulders would carry more figural weight that what was below. They dictated that to balance my lack of physical subtlety I would build an intelligence barrier to prove unequivocably that I am not soft, not bouncy, and not stupid.
So go ahead, take a good long look at them, ponder about plastic surgery, and assume that my breasts have somehow influenced my IQ. But be aware that I could probably smother you and make it look like an accident.