Hello, I Have Amazing Boobs

I’ve got big boobs and I cannot lie…

My rack. This photo is a selfie, and the t-shirt belongs to my daughter (I have no idea what it means).

I’m not much to look at, to be honest.

I’ve never been pretty, even when I was at my youngest and cutest. At my best, I’ve perhaps been striking. I’ve surely qualified as cute, or stylish, and some along the way have considered me hot, even sexy.

But pretty? Never.

I have close-set, small eyes, and not-great skin. Loads of freckle spots. I’m pretty chubby these days. I’m aging in all kinds of ways that are both natural and normal — and low-key alarming for me to witness.

But I have two things working in my traditional beauty standards favor:

1. I have thick, rather glorious hair.

2. I have amazing goddamn boobs.

I mean it. Just look at them!

I rarely praise my own appearance. I don’t think this is a thing we feminist women typically do. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve concluded it’s an act of self-care and gratitude, to outright state what it is you appreciate about your appearance, versus lamenting what you don’t. This is especially true as we age and become increasingly invisible.

So with that, please indulge me while I wax poetic about my amazing rack.

Why are my boobs so amazing?

I’m glad you asked.

• Because I’m 52 years old, and, well, look at them! My boobs have existed for over four decades. And yet somehow, they’ve not suffered the indignities of aging. I can walk around without a bra (though I don’t out in public, as I don’t like to intimidate people). But I can, and that feels really good.

• My boobs fed and grew two babies. What a marvel breastfeeding is. You make new life, and then your body can sustain that life, for months! It’s incredible. Nursing was draining (literally), the most exhausting thing I’ve ever undertaken. But I absolutely loved it. I mean, I’m not sad it’s done (my kids are teenagers now). But I loved it while it lasted.

• They’re… large. Specifically, I’m a 38DDDDD. This translates to a 38H, though it’s common practice for bra makers and shops to just not let you size out of Ds. I guess they think anything bigger than a D is not better? Whatever. My girls are huge, hot, and happy to go all the way to H.

• They still (mostly) defy gravity. I mean, they’re huge, so perky hardly seems like the right word. But they’re round and for the most part, still upright. I’ll take it.

• Gay men love them. I can’t explain this, but it’s been a universal in my life, gay men shouting across bars to me, “Your boobs look amazing in that dress!!!” I always demur and smile, knowingly. Of course they do.

• They’re dense, but healthy. This is the most important one of all. Did you know, 1 in 8 women will get breast cancer in their lifetime? It’s a scary stat and when you’re heading in for yearly exams from age 40 onward; that’s a lot of shots on deck. But so far, so good (she says, knocking all the wood).

My boobs are top of mind today for a reason.

Today I scheduled my annual mammogram. It’s not till August, but still — just knowing it looms creates low-key anxiety for me.

And not for no reason.

For my first few mammograms, it was no big whoop. I popped in, the machine squished my boobs, I left, I got an all-clear message a few days later. Come back next year.

But then I started to get scary readings.

The first time was in 2016; at midnight I got an email alert from eCare. I opened it, only to find a terrifying message: right-side mass, further testing needed.”

eCare has awful bedside manners.

Thankfully, I got in within a few days to our regional cancer care center for an ultrasound. It was clear. Phew.

Then it happened again, again via eCare. Rinse, repeat the process; it was clear, again.

The third time it happened was in 2020. Peak COVID. I had to wait three weeks to get in for follow-up tests. I tried my best not to catastrophize, but those were three long goddamn weeks.

Again, all clear. Immense, overwhelming relief.

That’s when I learned my boobs are dense. That might explain why they’re still so upright and aesthetically pleasing, but density also makes them hard to read on a mammogram. So, you take the good, you take the bad. You take them both. Come back next year.

My low-grade, ongoing stress about mammograms

Since those three false alarms that required secondary visits at the cancer care center, I’ve arranged with my doc to go straight there for my mammograms, where I get real-time results. I hate waiting, so it’s an immense relief.

But still, when my brain can’t find anything else to stress about, it’ll wander to that forthcoming appointment—even when it’s months away.

Intrusive boob thoughts. Am I the only one who gets those?

This is why I wrote this ridiculous article today. I called the cancer center so the appointment is on my mind, and I want to thwart any early anxiety around my forthcoming mammogram. I know it’s absurd to worry, especially when so many others have actually had breast cancer, making their visits far more loaded.

But worry is irrational that way.

Today I choose to combat it by expressing my immense gratitude for these two gorgeous, weighty friends of mine, who’ve been hitching a ride on my chest for over 40 years.

Thanks, boobs. You’ve still got it.

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Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

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