Me being in my prime is having breath in my body and pep in my step. My prime is that I’m a dope wife, a present mother, a caring friend, and a funny-ass woke bitch onstage. My prime is that I wake up every day and have a cute choice in wardrobe—because the fashion industry has either decided that as a size 18 broad I’m worthy of style, or perhaps they just want to make a buck off my booty. Who knows? I’ll think about it when I put on my ripped jeans and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.
When I turned twelve what I wanted for my birthday was a new bike. An iridescent purple banana-seat bike with glitter tassels on the handlebars. What I got was a set of workingwoman-size tits. No, for real. I went to bed as an eleven-year-old with an eleven-year-old body, then I woke up the next day with huge tits. It was like an NC-17 version of Big with Tom Hanks, but my reboot would be called Thick with Michelle Buteau.
I didn’t want these tits, but what was I gonna do? What followed that year was even more confusing than an overnight growth spurt. I had to deal with my prime-time thing perfect mother telling me to “Stop stickin’ ya breasts owt gehl!” I was wearing the same exact clothes I’d always wore before tittypocolypse. Now I’m being shamed for having good posture?
From Survival of the Thickest by Michelle Buteau. Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Buteau. Reprinted by permission of Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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