They say that if you place a newborn on its mother's stomach immediately after birth it will gradually work its way up to her breast and begin to suckle. How can I begin to argue with that kind of massive and instant appeal?

Age eight, I see my mother wheeled away on a gurney, tubes coming out of and connected to her in all sorts of serious ways. At the hospital, under lights, among strangers, you don't want to see your mother this way. Too young to understand what the “cosmetic” part of cosmetic surgery meant, I was sure she would die in her voluntary sleep. She came home, two days later, three cup sizes smaller. She told me later that life in her new body was like flying.

Mine disappoint me constantly. They never fit into the cute bras. Oh, sure they lure you in at the store with the frilly celery-colored lace demi-bras. But, when you get to my size the bras look like two pillowcases tied in an ace bandage. How can it be that big breasts, one of the most unwavering of sexual images, are to be held up and adored in the embrace of motel wallpaper patterned taupe Lycra with two-inch wide straps?

I have been surveying breasts since puberty. I quietly track everyone's growth, progress and plateau. Noting who could safely run track, jump rope, wear tank tops. I could not. Chesty girls are rarely athletes, and for good reason. However, someone in the seventh grade forgot to mention this to me. During gym, amid shushed laughter and slack-jawed stares, my instructor stopped me, mid jumping-jack, and asked me to "sit this one out." Breathless and relieved, I happily complied; but not to ease my embarrassment, thankfully to that I was oblivious. Jumping jacks hurt. They were extremely painful and my breasts would ache terribly afterward. At the time I thought that was just part of the workout. Remembering it now, I am putting my hand to my chest. My poor boobies, my poor ego.

At the suburban community pool, my friends and I giggled in throngs at boys. I borrowed my mother's old bathing suit because my 13-year old breasts spilled out of the bikini I wanted. I swam and splashed with my friends. When we heard the adult swim whistle blow, we let out an obligatory "awwww . . .". I stepped out of the pool with my heavy wet suit clinging to me like a sea animal scared of land. An older boy walked by and told me I gave him a hard-on. "A what?" I asked. A hard-on, he assured me. "Don't worry," I said," I'm really nice when you get to know me."

A recurring image is that of me, strapped to a table with one of my less endowed friends strapped to a table just next to me. A mad scientist type, complete with indistinguishable accent and funny hair, presses a few buttons on a quirky machine with fluid-filled cylinders bubbling diligently atop it. He inserts a long tube into each of my breasts and into the machine. Then he inserts tubes into either of my friend’s breasts and into the machine. With a maniacal cackle, he fires up the pump and the contents of my breasts are transferred to hers. This is the image I always see whenever a smaller chested friend remarks, as if she was the first to think of it, that if I don't want my breasts she'd be happy to take them for me.

I knew I wanted to breast-feed. What had I been hauling these gals around for, if not to provide my newborn with the perfect food? I read all the books, even bought a breast pump to get myself started. An ominous looking contraption. The allure of pumping breast milk in anticipation of nursing turned out to be as glamorous as topless housework. This device was little more than a hand held vacuum for your breasts; the only difference being a plastic funnel for your nipple and the from-the-neck-up picture of a woman in a business suit, smiling smugly. As the birth day approached, my breast began to ache with excitement. "Finally!" I could hear them cheering. After my daughter was born, I knew it was showtime for my breasts. This was their big moment to finally shine, to validate their cumbersome existence. However, I was told explicitly not to attempt nursing until the breast-feeding specialist made her scheduled visit. Impatient and excited, my breasts and I waited. She entered my room and with little warning or eye contact grabbed my left breast, cradled it in her palm and showed me her specialized expert technique that I had been so obediently waiting for: she put my nipple into my daughter's mouth. The specialist then ended her tutorial with, "Be sure to hold back your breast from the infant's face when she's nursing otherwise she could suffocate and die. Good luck!" and with that she left. Good luck at not killing your baby with your enormous boobs.

I slouch. Not because I am lazy or tired or malformed. It is simply because I am top heavy. We are talking basic physics here. At eleven and already a C cup, my bones were not ready to support this much weight up front. I wore a back brace, I saw a doctor. He told me I had developed scoliosis; a curvature of the spine resulting in poor posture and more notably, chronic back pain for the rest of my life. At the time, my doctor actually prescribed a special bra. Not only did it eliminate up to two inches of visible bust, it also redistributed the weight to allow my bones room to grow the right way. I stood taller in that bra. I grew out of it in two months.

My clothes, along with the signature pair of convex stretch marks, most often bare at least some morsel of the day's meals. You see, food never lands in my lap. I have never enjoyed the dramatic panic of urgent club soda dabbings on the thighs of silk skirts. Nothing ever makes it past The Shelf. When fine-dining, the mavens of manners instruct us to put our napkins in our laps to protect it from falling food that, inevitably, will crumble onto even the most careful of eaters; however, often the well-endowed are overlooked in the rituals of polite society. Am I to tie my napkin around my neck? My only wish was that wearing my food in caustic splats across my bosom would somehow serve as endearing. A wish granted when my boyfriend cooed, "You know what I love about you honey? I never have to ask you what you had for lunch."

They have special powers though, this I cannot deny. The right neckline teamed up with the right bra is a passport into or out of any situation. It seems when men, specifically men of relative, but limited, power, i.e. bouncers, waiters, security guards are confronted with anything over a certain threshold of cleavage (to give out the exact figure would compromise its effectiveness) they are rendered unable to perform their basic duties and are capable of little more than staring and nodding along as though they are listening while remaining completely unaware of you having a face. I indulge in taking advantage from time to time, huffing my way past the velvet ropes, into a better table, out of a ticket. Front row or bust!

I spend my days strapping them in, positioning them just so; poking them like marshmallows with underwired bras and coaxing closed distressed button-up blouses. My shoulders have indents, the thin skin of my bare breasts has rarely, if ever, seen daylight. One day, I want to go fiercely braless. I want to liberate my shoulders from bra straps. I want to feel my breasts rise and fall with each inhalation, rather than the constant constriction of tight and then slightly less-tight elastic across my back. I want to fearlessly do cart-wheels and hand-stands. I want nipples to sprout coyly from beneath tight tee-shirts. I want to lie back and have them melt into my body then emerge on the other side like wings.

Daynah Burnett is an English major at George Mason Univertsity with a concentration in non-fiction and editing. She and her boobs live happily in Chantilly along with her boyfriend Brandon and their daughter Milah.