I have an extremely unhealthy obsession with my body. I was blessed, sarcastically speaking, cursed with these enormous 34D cup boobs. Ever since I began to develop some curves, I was kind of ahead from the rest of my peers. Boys at school would just stare at me in a rude manner and girls would nudge each other and give me this bitchy look. Having such gigantic jugs, I have been limited to some activities. I could not run because my breasts would give an "earthquake like" tremor to the rest of my body let alone the rest of the world, and finding the perfect fitting clothes or bras at size-biased stores in Jakarta is impossible because a tight t-shirt makes me look like a sad porn star and loose-fit clothes creates a pregnant woman silhouette for me.
Initially, I thought all of these mistakes came from me, meaning that I was slightly overweight. Mum always encouraged me that personality and intellectuality are more important than physical beauty, but having these silicon-implanted look-alikes protruding on my chest instantly made male colleagues think of me as a slutty airhead. Even with all of Mum's encouragement for me to be confident with my well endowed figure, I have already set my mind on losing weight in hope that half the content of my breasts would disappear too.
As soon as I reached the age of 22, I tried all those exercise regimes from the celebrity-raged Yoga to the much believed new "it" thing Pilates, suffering from back pains, bruises and sprains I endured during my spartanic lifestyle on the gym floor. I started to lose hope as my weight drastically dropped too, because my breasts seemed to stay the same size even compared to when I was ten kilos heavier. I guess my breasts inherited the identical bone-head personality as my brain did. The trouble is, while the rest of my body could fit easily into size 8 clothes, my breasts would resist and desperately seek for the plus size department.
