Saggy Boobs, Crooked Teeth, and Zero Regrets

Saggy boobs, crooked teeth, big vibes — zero apologies. Flaws out, confidence in. Own your hot mess express.

Okay, let’s talk about my childhood beef with cameras. Absolute nightmare. My face? A whole moon crater situation — pimples galore. My teeth? Let’s just say Mom never missed a chance to remind me that they had their zip code. And my body? Let’s not even start. ‘Heavy-set’ was the polite family code for ‘girl, you built like a snack… but not in a good way.’ Then came the bra era. Thanks to a diet of Reese’s and Pepsi (no regrets), I hit puberty faster than my classmates hit the swings.

Before I even hit double digits, Mom shipped me off to JCPenney with my brother’s girlfriend for a fitting. Cue the horror movie soundtrack. First time seeing myself in a three-way mirror? Traumatized.

I sobbed — then blamed it on ‘not knowing how to clasp the stupid thing’ because admitting I hated what I saw? Too real. The next day, I wore the bra to school like a badge of shame. Bad move. By recess, that thing had twisted itself into a medieval torture device. My nipples? Front and center, poking through my white tee like ‘HELLO, WORLD.’

The teacher took one look at me and was like, ‘You need the bathroom.’ Ma’am. I needed a lot of things. A new body, a time machine, and maybe some emotional support. A bathroom pass was not the fix.

So there I was, wrestling with that demon bra in the bathroom like it was my mortal enemy. Spoiler: my baby muscles lost. Spandex: 1, Me: 0. I gave up, rocked the twisted mess all day, and then? Yeah, that bra went into exile for years. Cut to age 15, me side-eyeing my reflection like, Why my DD’s out here swinging like church bells? Bend over, and bam — they’re basically at my hip bones. So I casually drop this complaint near Mom, hoping for a ‘Girl, stop, you’re fine!’ or even a ‘Newsflash: boobs defy gravity for NO ONE.’

Instead? ‘Well, Sherry, maybe if we’d forced you into that torture device longer as a kid, they wouldn’t be so… droopy.’ Cool. Thanks, Mom. So what’s a girl to do? I went full ‘I’ll fix it myself’ mode — starved off 75 pounds like it was a challenge. My boobs?

Deflated balloons. My teeth and cheekbones? Suddenly very dramatic, like they were trying to escape my face. I was lightheaded, weak… and for the first time? Society-approved ‘pretty.’ One night, I went full edgy art kid — shaky black eyeliner framing my blue eyes, dark purple lips serving moody vampire realness. Grabbed the digital cam and took like 100 selfies, pouting like some tragic, fabulous heiress who just lost her favourite fur coat.

Was I okay? Not. But did I look aesthetic? Oh, 100%. Fast forward a few months — plot twist: Mom found the pics. And let’s just say, if there’s one thing she hated more than traffic jams, it was vanity.

Like, if Dad took an extra 20 seconds to fix his moustache and baseball cap in the mirror? She’d elbow me like, ‘Ohhh, look at Mr. Pretty Boy over here! Someone’s feeling himself!’ So when she stumbled across my moody, pouty selfie era, I braced for the roast of a lifetime. But instead? She just put the camera down, didn’t even look at me, and said, ‘You look… nice in these.’

Silence. No sarcasm. No jab. Just… a compliment? Who even was this woman? Now, as a grown, thick queen, my body’s been through it — weight fluctuations left my girls saggier than ever, my teeth still have their agenda, and yeah, Mom’s still… Mom.

But guess what? I take selfies now. No hiding. No shame. Bras? Still the enemy. My floppy boobs? Fully out here living their best life. Crooked teeth? Part of the charm. Mom’s messy love? All part of the iconic disaster that is me.

Because without all this? I wouldn’t be me. And honestly? I’m kinda dope.

The Bottom Line

So here’s the thing — perfection is boring. Saggy boobs? They’ve got their gravitational pull, and honestly, that’s kind of iconic. Crooked teeth? They’re just proof I’ve smiled (or cringed) too hard to care. And Mom’s backhanded love? Well, it built me tougher than any underwire ever could. Life tried to shrink me into smaller jeans, into straighter teeth, into quieter confidence. But nah. I bloomed loud, messy, and unapologetically off-centre. Because the best kind of beauty isn’t polished — it’s the kind that survives. Stretch marks, sass, and all.

So yeah, I’m a whole hot mess express. But baby, this train’s got first-class vibes — and zero stops at ‘regret.’ Choo-choo, btch. This ending keeps your bold, unapologetic tone while tying together the themes of self-acceptance, humour, and defiance. Let me know if you’d like any tweaks!