In this month’s “Life with the Girls,” Catherine Censor reflects on a half-century spent negotiating peace with her adversarial breasts: the God-given ones, the surgically-reduced ones and the artificial ones.
My breasts have always been something of a disappointment. Or rather, I have been a disappointment to my breasts. At every stage of my life, we have struggled to coexist.
I developed early and with great enthusiasm. My 34Ds made their appearance just in time for co-ed gym class but years before the invention of the sports bra. Since I was—still am—under five feet tall, my breasts occupied more than their fair share of corporeal real estate, and they were a poor fit in other regards. As a bookish kid, I was mortified to have big breasts, and I’m sure the breasts were equally chagrined that they weren’t affixed to a stripper.