Getting an 'F' in Biology

Also, of course, to sell things. And be a thousand B-comedy punch lines. The fact that they make us buy things and we love to laugh at them means something about them makes us uncomfortable. It might be the fear and resentment engendered by anything powerful -- why ARE we so driven to watch them? Think of all the trouble Marilyn Monroe went to to convince us she was harmless. It's okay, honey, I'm no more in control of this than you.

But of course she was -- the calculated innocent act offset her God-given powers. Those of us who don't become sex symbols can still have a measure of control: flatter or disguise them, go free-range or conventional. Because of the possibility for control they offer, and because they're the only way Western women are encouraged to be big, they can be agents of liberation and self-acceptance. Their symbolic and literal weight -- what makes them so darned problematic in the first place -- are two more things you have on your side when you finally make peace with them.

So you make peace, and then something dreadful happens -- such as, you learn, as I did, that your breasts are not done with you.

The problem was that I was already wearing a double D , which is pretty much the end of the line. Christina, whose critique of my brassiere had instigated this, very kindly took me shopping and gave me moral support, which, it soon became clear, was the only support I was going to get. The store, a discount chain, carried only up to DD. Christina very kindly called me a freak and took me out for coffee.

Fortunately, my mother knew what to do. Although a little more conventionally sized, she puts all her trust in the Nordstrom Ladies.

The Nordstrom Lady took out her tape measure and figured me right out. In any lingerie section of any department store, they sell two varieties of bra. The first is an accessory: fun, in exciting colors to match your mood, with extra stuffing or not, with straps for different necklines and advanced technology for God-knows-what. The second has a job to do. The industrial-strength bra comes in beige, white or black. There is a solemnity about it, an awareness of what will be expected of this poor piece of cloth, a deference. These are the bras I have come to know, and these are the ones the Nordstrom Lady walked past to get to the one that would be mine. Because even the Nordstrom Lady had only one in my new size.

My size turned out to be 34F. Yes, efffff. You may draw it out slowly if you wish, an extended fricative for maximum comedic effect.

The 34F does not mess around. It might look like the curtains, but it is made of chicken wire and upholstery. You would lose a fight with this bra. It is the Rambo of bras. But for all its toughness, it still exudes a come-to-Grandma sexiness.

Still, it's mine now, and I am at peace. And not, as some people think, in pain. I am architecturally sound -- tall and broad-shouldered and hippy enough to have basic structural integrity, with triangulate distribution of weight-bearing loads. The edifice is sturdy. The center can hold. So, no, there is no need for surgery. There's only one way out of this, and that is down.

But I'd better be done; that's all I'm saying . If I wake up tomorrow looking at a whole new letter of the alphabet, somebody's gonna pay. Probably the makers of my fifth-grade health class videos, which said in no uncertain terms that puberty . . . ends.

But assuming I'm no longer a moving target, the question remains: What impact have my 34 effffs had on my life? That's the question I was asked to answer in this essay, and my initial inclination was to say: Their greatest impact is that they got me a writing assignment. Oh, and when it rains, there's a part of my shirt that doesn't get wet.

But the fact is, I've spent much of my adult life denying the importance of my breasts, because, ever since they showed up, I wanted not to be the person they implied I was -- vapid and show-offy and easily impressed. I've worked hard at not being that. Which is to say, now that I think about it, my breasts have had an appropriately enormous impact on who I am. In a way, they've made me who I am.

Adolescence requires rebellion, and, if you happen to have large breasts, you might as well rebel against the Hooters-waitress cliche you are apparently destined to become. So I did, vowing that what's going on above my shoulders would forever and always be just as interesting as those things below. I would take intellectual charge of them -- observe them anthropologically. Make up witty comebacks to "Are those real?" (I have never been asked, but if I am, I am ready. I will say, "No, you made them up.") Sure, some people will still call you "The Man Show" behind your back, and occasionally a guy will rollerblade into a tree in your presence. That could be coincidental.

But what I realized is that my reaction to puberty -- fury -- drove me further inside my head, which subsequently became a wild place, headquarters for my internal resistance movement.

I would dress strategically, which is to say, demurely, except at those times when I would not. In other words, I would always be in charge. I would not be soft. I would not bounce. I wouldn't lean an inch forward to get what I wanted. My lack of physical subtlety would be balanced by thoughts I determined to make impenetrable. I am not easy, in any sense.

Stare all you want; you'll have no idea what's going on in my head. Because if you're staring, I am probably thinking that I could smother you and make it look like an accident.

Harsh? I know. But with a rack like this, you can't be a doormat.

Rachel Manteuffel is an actor and a writer who lives in Vienna.