Allow me to state the obvious: I have no boobs. Not small boobs — no boobs. In fact,… Allow me to state the obvious: I have no boobs. Not small boobs — no boobs. In fact, where my boobs are supposed to be, there are actually dents in my chest.

OK, I’m exaggerating about that last part, but not by much.

I realize I’m not alone in the world, and that I actually have some great “boobless” company: Kate Hudson, Keira Knightley, Cameron Diaz and Natalie Portman.

Despite this excellent company, the only company to which I ever compare myself or get compared by others is family, mainly my sisters.

Now, how do I put this politely? Both of my sisters are extremely well endowed in the chest region. What makes matters more difficult is that one of my sisters is three years younger than I am.

When she surpassed me in bra size, I didn’t panic. Everyone always told me that I would just wake up one morning and BAM! I’d have boobs. “Just watch, Lexie,” they would say, “you’ll be bigger than all of us.”

After about 12 years of waking up in the morning only to find that I hadn’t magically sprouted any melons — or even grapefruits would be nice — I’m finally giving up at the age of 21. This is as big as they will get.

I’ll admit that my breastlessness wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t for my sisters and my constant comparison to them.

For years I’ve worn bras that are too big for me, just to give the illusion that something is there. That’s right — I live a lie. This ends up being a cruel joke for boys who eventually discover the truth. Their confusion and disappointment are almost as bad as mine when I contemplate my DNA.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my sisters hogged all the boob genes, along with the good singing genes.

Other than living my lie, I have found I didn’t have many options. Can you imagine my disappointment when my boobs didn’t get bigger after I went on birth control?

Convinced that the hormones in cow’s milk would make my boobs bigger, I started drinking three glasses per day. This probably wouldn’t seem so desperate if I wasn’t lactose intolerant.

I also responded to a casting call for MTV’s “True Life” to be on “True Life: I hate my small breasts.” I thought some plastic surgeon might take pity on me and give me an augmentation for free. Unfortunately, I didn’t get cast.

But I had to wonder, would silicon make me feel better? Sure, they would look bigger and maybe fool other people, but they wouldn’t fool me. They would still be a lie, just like my oversized bras and the tubesocks I might shove in them. Was it even my small chest that was making me upset, or just the fact that I had been genetically cheated?

Besides, what am I really missing out on? Some might even consider me lucky. No complications come with small boobs, except for not being able to fill out certain articles of clothing.

Large breasts, on the other hand, can lead to back problems and bad posture, in addition to eventual unsightly saggage, not to mention I will never have to worry about being slapped in the face by my own bosom while running.

I will undoubtedly be crept on far less by men than women who have large chests, and while my face has to be much nicer to compensate, I luckily wasn’t swindled in the facial region — this mug was carved by angels.

If I’ve learned anything from having small breasts, it’s the timeless lesson that life isn’t fair. I might feel like I’m missing out on some of the curvy glory of being a woman, but I will never have to triple layer my sports bras before I exercise. While my boobs will never get me out of a speeding ticket or into a club, I luckily don’t have that extra 10 pounds to carry around that busty beauties do.

I’ve also been forced, through the negative comments about my small breasts by others, to be confident and secure in myself and other parts of my body. I might have a flat chest, but I’m damn proud of my legs — and being a woman.

Instead of focusing my attention on something I can’t change, without a couple thousand dollars and a highly recommended plastic surgeon, I should focus my attention on improvements to my body I can actually make, like toning up my biceps or putting a Bumpit in my hair. Just kidding — I would never wear a Bumpit.

So instead of hopping on the plastic surgery wagon, because I’m a poor college student supporting myself and my chinchilla, I plan on rocking these small breasts — and sometimes without a bra. Let’s be honest — I don’t really need one.

If you’re confident in your body, e-mail Lexie at [email protected].