Deflated

I am entering to win a Nintendo Wii and Wii Fit from CityMama.

There was a time in my life when I wasn’t as comfortable with my double-A sized chest as I am now. That era began when I was about 11 and lasted until I was about 20, when an old boyfriend told me I was perfect (or at least that part of me was) and I believed him. Looking back, it’s not like I was living in shame. In high school, I formed the Mosquito Bite Club (MBC) with two of my fellow lesser-endowed pals. We had a handshake and everything (don’t ask). And in middle school, I, on a few occasions, stuffed myself like a fat turkey on T-day.

One of those occasions happened to be on a day that I would attend dance class. You can probably predict the rest of this tale. The teacher has us do pirouettes across the room. I start spinning. Mid-rotation, a wad of toilet paper molded by boob-sweat into the shape of a small dome inches its way up my chest and situates itself just below my neck, leaving one of my (homemade) gals, well, deflated. I, of course, am completely oblivious until a girl in class looks at me, gasps, yanks my arm and pulls me to the corner of the room. She grabs the Charmin-Ultra-constructed prosthetic out of my shirt and whispers, “What is this?” I blush, grab it back, run to the bathroom and flush my almost-B-cup down the toilet. I get back to class, whisper “thanks” to the girl that saved me and get back into second position like nothing ever happened.