Like a Deranged Easter Bunny

I really feel for the kid in “A Christmas Story”.  Not because of the whole Red Ryder BB gun thing, but because of the rabbit pajamas his Aunt Clara sends him.  I understand the look of horror on his face and the complete humiliation of having to show the gift to his family because I’ve been down that road, with what is possibly an even stranger Christmas gift.
Growing up, I wasn’t the most attractive duck in the pond.  I was short and extremely skinny.  My grandmother firmly believed I was anorexic because if I turned sideways you could practically see through me.  I had a hard enough time breaking ninety pounds, and breaking a hundred seemed like an impossible feat (how I miss those days).  My hair was mousey and had developed what was, to me, a horrifying tendency to curl on its on.  
I was also hopelessly flat chested.  When I was young the taunts mainly focused around ant hills and the like.  As I got older they progressed to the formidable “itty bitty titty committee” and “turnpike” (aka no curves).   The only truly original taunt I can recall is “land you could put a tool shed on” as opposed to “huge tracts of land” - see Monty Python if you miss this one.
My lack of assets was a very sore spot for me throughout my teenage years.  And this didn’t go unnoticed by my sweet, well meaning grandmother. 
I remember that Christmas so well.  Sitting around the tree, opening presents, showing each other what we’d gotten.  I went for a squarish box thinking it was about the size to fit a t-shirt in, tore off the paper, opened it up, and discovered...boobs.  Staring up at me were boobs.  Fake silicon boobs.  My mother said, “What did you get?”  I stared in abject horror and shook my head as my grandfather and uncle watched me expectantly.
Apparently then my grandmother snapped to what I’d opened.  “Oh she can show them to us later!” she said.  I stared at her like she was crazy.  “I figured you could really get some use out of them!” she said.  I stared at her with a mixture of horror and indignation.  “And they’re supposed to feel like they’re real if somebody touches them!” she said.  That did it.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  I thanked her graciously, closed the box, and moved on to the next present.
I did try them on later, with an air of resigned disappointment and a mix of other negative emotions, much like Ralphie and his bunny pajamas.  They were very sweaty and felt like wearing a Halloween mask for an extended period of time.  I had no intention of finding someone to tell me if they felt like they were real - I hadn’t even kissed a boy at this point in my life so it seemed like it would be completely throwing the universe out of order.  And the thought of wearing them on an every day basis...well, take the horror of Kleenex falling out of your stuffed bra and imagine a flesh colored silicone lump falling out instead.  My teenage brain couldn’t even wrap itself around the possibility of recovering socially from something like that.
I couldn’t be a complete jerk about it though.  They had come from my grandmother after all.  I thanked her again.  I promised her I would wear them on special occasions.  And I slipped the box into my closet and forgot about it.

Hell, who wouldn't want one?

My boobs were my figurative pink bunny suit.  This Christmas I’m hoping for my figurative leg lamp.