It’s sort of a big day for me. After nearly 34 days on this planet, I have come to terms with my breasts. I’ve more then come to terms with them, I’m accepting them. I am understanding that they are mine and they fit me.
I remember my teen years when I held out hope that they would get larger, even with all the genetic evidence to the contrary. Then there were my 20s when they were just there, I didn’t really think about them negatively OR positively. I’ve never had to “deal” with them much. Never had to worry about how a design on a t-shirt would be deformed by them. Never had to find ways to control them should I decide to run. Never worried about their sheer strength allowing them to make a valiant escape from a swimsuit.
Once I hit my 30s, the idea of surgically enhancing “the girls” consumed my mind. I’m sure it had NOTHING to do with the preponderance of TV shows where people were getting sliced and diced in every way imaginable to be more acceptable to society. It seemed like it would soon be the case that I would be the only woman in the US with small breasts. I didn’t want that to be true. Luckily, I was in no financial situation to take such drastic measures. Then I had some “non-elective” surgery and was so terrified at that whole process and had such struggles with recovery that there was no way I was going to CHOOSE to go under the knife.
This past summer I have worn deep v-neck shirts with little camisoles under them. Sure, I don’t have any real cleavage (or Cleveland as my little cousin calls it) but “the girls” are perky and stay where they should be without any sort of flying buttress type of contraption. I now don’t even LOOK at the many undergarments that are on the market with gel, or water or other fillers that plump things up and push things together. It just doesn’t feel normal for me at all.
I will never have to worry about shuffling down the hall of a nursing home kicking my boobs with my knees. If there is a chill, they are super responsive (as the coolness doesn’t have to go through much flesh to get a reaction). If a fella is a “boob” man, he won’t be interested in me, but I think that might weed out some of the, well, “weeds.”
Boobs sag and such, but my bright blue eyes and quick wit will be where they are supposed to be, right along with my “girls.”
So there, I’m cool with my ta-tas. My mini-melons serve me fine. My chi-chis are cute. All is good with my chesticles.
It being breast cancer awareness month…this seems even more timely 🙂
Now on to the million other parts of my physical and mental being that I need to accept….a woman’s work is never done!