Dangerous Boobies

HOOKER WITH A HEART

The photographer shook her head. "Yeah, there's lots of boob in that one too."

My entire life was filled with lots of boob. I angled my arms. I pulled my ribs back and my hips forward, as if Tyra were screaming at me from the sidelines of America's Next Top Model. I attempted to stick out my elbow and elongate my neck. I looked like a Cirque du Soleil du Reject; nothing worked.

The reality was that my boobs were taking over my life. This wasn't new; these tits loved to upstage me. Teen boys would yell at me from the street, weird men would follow me for a few blocks, and women would stare at me in shock. "How does someone so short have such huge boobs?!" I was always being asked the smartest questions.

To compensate, I wore scarves and layers to conceal my chest. It worked—I was (almost) able to stylishly drown my breasts and sexuality while simultaneously looking a little pregnant or homeless, or both.

Did my boobs hurt my back? Yep! Did they ruin every outfit I ever tried on? You betcha! Did they make me oversexualized at every event? Duh! These big little shits have been outshining me since eighth grade. From Chanukah parties to N'Sync concerts, the terrible twins just wouldn't quit.

And now they were taking over my photo session. I was supposed to be getting head shots taken for my acting portfolio, something that usually made me feel great. Hair and makeup and attention and more attention—sign me up! But this wasn't one of those '80s-montage makeover moments. We were in crisis mode. How do we hide these boobies? After three shirt changes and two bra changes, the photographer suggested, "Let's try a blazer?"

Just to clarify: A blazer is the kiss of death; wrap it up—game over. Nothing we tried could take attention away from my big boobies, so we were forced to cover and bury. My breasts successfully hijacked this photo session. All I needed was a microphone and a brick wall, and I was a middle-aged woman doing standup in the '90s. (To be fair, that is kinda a dream role.)

But the acting roles I was looking to be cast in didn't include my canyon of cleavage. I wanted to book a commercial for things like the Infinity Combo: Mop & Blender, and instead I looked like I would be cast as "Hooker #2 (with a Heart)" or "Ex-Wife Who's RLY into Margaritas."

Let's get real honest, real fast: I had size 32G boobs. I know—so big! G—as in GEE-THOSE-ARE-BIG G. Get-off-my-body G. Good-luck-hiding-those G. Why-would-God-punish-thee G! They were massive. Too big, Linebacker-Who-Likes-to-Bake Big. Boys loved them, girls wanted them, and friends couldn't believe I hid them so well. "Caitlin, there is NO way they are Gs!" I hated my boobs with all my heart. I made it my personal mission to keep them secured and camouflaged like the deadly weapons they were.

While we are being honest: They might one day have killed me. I tested positive for the BRCA genetic mutation, giving me a staggeringly high risk of developing breast cancer and ovarian cancer. #Blessed. This is a heredity-based mutation and in my case passed down from my father's Ashkenazi Jewish genes. I grew up in a Jewish-Catholic home, split fifty-fifty, and my top half was fully kosher. My father is the only living relative in his immediate family, and growing up I watched my favorite people lose battles with cancer. As a child, cancer was the monster under my bed. I would worry cancer would come for my sister or little brother. As I grew, I quickly became an expert at blocking out all feelings toward cancer. I just stuffed it down like a good little Catholic.

Massive deadly breasts that must be concealed? Someone make this movie. I would be happy to be cast in any production of anything actually, but I wanted to make the choice of what parts I could be in and not have my boobs make that decision for me. #RESIST. I also found myself apologizing the entire time during the photo shoot. I had lower self-esteem than that sad girl at the library you avoid making eye contact with. I was sorry it was such a concern, I was sorry that I was so unhappy with how I looked, and I was sorry my breasts were my biggest problem. I didn't want my miserable experience to rub off on the photographer. I was used to this struggle, but the photographer shouldn't have it wreck her day, too.

And then I was angry. This ruined my entire experience. Yes, I have body issues—I am a female actress, aren't I? Pile on my boob issues, and we were at an all-time high. And yes, I knew I needed more therapy, but whatever I did, the boobs were taking over my body and claiming it as their throne. I had no control over them. I know it's grating to be reading this if you are a woman with smaller breasts who wished you had bigger ones. It's like my friend Colin, who won't shut up about his huge hands—we get it. But living this way wasn't half as much fun as Colin's adventures.

My husband used to hold up my boobs when we would shower together to give my back a break. Girls with big twins, try it—it's amazing. It you don't have a shower buddy, use a shelf or counter. Just place the big twins on for a second, take a deep breath, and let your back relax. It's just the BEST. (But if you literally have twins who are children, don't leave them on a shelf or counter alone.)

My breasts would dictate what I could wear, how much I had to cover up, how I held my body, and how people would treat me. "Eyes up here, buddy. We're at a funeral. It's embarrassing." I would wear a compression bra and a tank top to help with cleavage spillage. Then I would top it all off with a V-neck T-shirt to avoid a uniboob. I couldn't control how people responded to my breasts, but I was going to do whatever I could to keep them on lock. Oh and I would wear a skirt or pants, whatever was clean, but even that didn't matter.

In college I considered getting breast-reduction surgery, but it all felt too intense. I was more comfortable hating my body. I was used to fourteen-year-old boys yelling "Big titties!" as they ran away giggling.

But that afternoon I was fed up. I wanted more control over everything: the photo session, my body, and my boobs. It didn't feel at all like I was representing myself. It felt like we were working with a disguise. I didn't want to play the parts my breasts could cast me in. And a head shot typically doesn't show your whole body. The eight-by-ten-inch photo cuts you right under your chest, right at your waist. For me, that would be 50 percent cleavage guaranteed.

Now, head shots are just a colorful requirement e-mailed to directors digitally (for some reason, everyone has very blue eyes). I miss the days when diners were filled with glossy black-and-white head shots of movie stars, actors, and the owner's cousin.

I have wanted to be a professional actress since I was three years old and was cast in a local Magnum PI commercial. The lights, the makeup, the free snacks—all of it delighted me, and I decided it would be my life. Then, in fifth grade, I was given one line as a Munchkin in The Wizard of Oz, and I understood this was my calling.

So I earned a bachelor of fine arts in acting and moved to New York. I even had some early success! I made a tiny cameo as Drunk Girl in Pirate Costume in the critically acclaimed blockbuster Step Up 3D. It required no hip-hop dancing.

Now I needed head shots—and I wanted photos that would increase my chances of being cast as anyone besides "Russian Hamster Smuggler."

I had brought my favorite JLo album (On the 6) because I wanted to feel beautiful and weightless—"Feelin' So Good"! But my boobs brought me right back down to earth. I was distracted and demoralized, and I needed deodorant. The photo session ended: Boobs 2, Brodnick 0.

I rolled my suitcase away from the hip Meatpacking District studio over the romantically charming but heel-tripping cobblestone streets, feeling defeated. My hopes had been drowned by a blazer. I started to doubt my whole acting career. "Maybe this is all I can offer? Maybe I will just have to be cast as the Sexy Dog Walker or Pregnant Aesthetician?" I treated myself to a cab, sat back on the smelly pleather seats, and tried not to cry.

I wanted to escape my body. I wanted to propel my life into the future. I felt this way in middle school and college: The next step was always going to be better. Then I will feel happier. Then I will be confident.

As I was crossing the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, I thought, "I cannot wait until I am sixty and I can get a mastectomy so I'm finally free of these horrible things." That was my first sobering thought.

My second one was, "Isn't life supposed to be amazing at twenty-eight? Aren't I in my prime? Or at least a type of prime?" And then I had an epiphany, or we hit a pothole, or I threw up in my mouth. I wanted to get the surgery—and I wanted to get it now.

It felt completely wild to give myself permission to jump into this extreme decision. I knew it was emotional—but let's be honest, every decision I make is emotional, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. It felt right, and for once I wasn't as scared.

Not only were my breasts subjecting me to blazers and hooker roles, but also… they might actually END me.