Shay Broom was the stereotypical baton twirler. Cute. Popular. Far above me in the popularity hierarchy. I remember exactly what she said the one time she deigned to associate with me. Alone with me at the bus stop, she queried "Do the boys tease you because you're flat chested?"

It was a serious inquiry, not a slight. Shay was as flat as a board, but otherwise more or less flawless. I, on the other hand, was riddled with flaws. I had glasses, braces, acne and greasy hair. Only two years earlier, my math teacher advised me that wearing deodorant would be in my best interest. I was teased about many, many things, but not about being flat chested. In retrospect, I feel fortunate that the boys who teased me did not acknowledge my body, or lack thereof, in addition to my other shortcomings.

Besides, we were only 13. Most every girl I knew was flat chested. Yet, In Shay's defense, that was the age when Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret was read and reread. Every school has a girl that comes back from summer vacation with a couple of bobbling melons under her Polo. "She must be doing the 'I must, I must, I must increase my bust' exercise," we all thought, thumbing through our Judy Bloom puberty guides.

So I answered Shay honestly: "No. They don't." She seemed confused and then asked if my underdevelopment bothered me. "Not really." And really, it didn't--until that moment.

And yes, it bothered me every day for years and years from that moment on. By the time I was 19, I choose to ignore my 34AA training bra. For once I no longer looked like a troll, so I decided to focus on the positive. Then misfortune struck.

At first it was just mild tenderness, but within weeks there were sharp pains in my breasts that kept me awake nights. I decided it was cancer. I was sure of it. I started a series of multiple nightly breast examinations. There were no lumps per se, but there was definite swelling.

Months later, after reviewing the evidence with my friends, I gradually came to the realization that what I had wasn't a malignancy--what I had was boobs. BOOBS! I had BOOBS? I wouldn't go so far as to call them knockers, but they were boobs nonetheless.

Later that month, I marched triumphantly into Victoria's Secret and tried on numerous sizes until I found one that fit. 34C. I tried on a few more. Again, 34C. Then, finally, the moment I had been waiting for. I slipped a Miracle Bra over my shoulders and fastened. After some shuffling and pushing I looked into the mirror. Cleavage. Good God, I had cleavage! I bought the bra and went on my way.

A lot has changed is 8th grade. A lot hasn't. I wear deodorant now, but my face still breaks out. My hair is fabulous but my eyesight stinks. My teeth aren't perfect, but at least I don't look like a bucked-tooth yokel.

And I don't know if Shay Broom ever developed boobs--but baby, I sure did.

All Personal Breast photos by Robyn Eden.