Love/Hate=Appreciate

Breasts.  Boobs.  Tits.  Titties.  Cans.  Jugs.  Melons.  Sweater meat.  Air bags.  Fun bags.  Sand bags.  Bouncing Bettys.  A Woman’s Real Eyes.  Conversation Pieces.  Erotic Mountains.  Hooters.  Mammary Glands.  Mosquito Bites.  Penis Pillows.  Dirty Pillows.  Fat Nancies.  Chesticles.  Mammary meat.  Knockers.  Ta-tas.

I wasn’t breastfed as a baby, so that’s not where this obsession is coming from.  Bottle fed, straight up.  I do, however, remember seeing my mother nude as a young child and noticing how large her 38DDs were.  I didn’t really pay attention to other peoples’ breasts, unless they were just shaped weird or extremely huge, so I felt like Mom’s natural chest was what a woman was supposed to look like.  In my evening bath I sucked in my stomach really far to pretend like the bottoms of my ribcage were my nipple-less symbols of womanhood. 

In elementary school kids were already romanticizing a grown-up life and rushing their childhoods.  We wanted to stay up late, earn money, grow body hair, drive, wear deodorant and bras.  As of yet, we had no idea how much most of that stuff sucks.  The girls wanted to start their periods and the guys talked about our bodies like we were merely caterpillars about to turn into butterflies.  We all wanted breasts like they were our beautiful wings.  Beautiful wings made of fat.  And most of us wanted big ones.  These sixth grade boys never spoke of their admiration for small breasts; maybe some of them learned their preference later, after they actually saw or touched a real breast or learned that it’s more about the sum of a woman’s parts that makes her interesting, or maybe they learned how to go against the general peer consensus later. 

So the rumors spread through the school and impressionable young minds.  Eating peanut butter made your boobs grow.  Jumping up and down would make them bigger.  It was time to press your hands together under your chin and work out those muscles behind your pert pre-pubescent nipples.  Of course the peanut butter thing worked if you ate enough of it.  But you never can tell whether all of that fat is going to settle instead in your ass, hips, or thighs, which is more likely since gravity pulls it down.  While we’re on the subject of gravity, the jumping up and down can only make your boobs saggier; believe me, this is the method I chose for my experimentation.  I remember myself in my friend’s bathroom mirror around age ten, considering how it surely couldn’t hurt.  I jumped for several minutes, and I recall my gullibility often enough to wonder if anyone heard me and if they wondered why on earth I was jumping in their bathroom.  I toy with the ideas of what I would have said if they had asked me.  “In girl scouts we visited Cherokee and I learned a pee dance” or “I jump when I’m craving peanut butter.  Do you have any?” 

Those pre-breast years were tough.  I got made fun of for my hairstyles (bad perms, mullets, poof to the max), my clothes, my shoes, not having boobs.  I don’t remember growing boobs.  I just remember having boobs.  Then, the ridiculous attention was something different.  My best friend and I jogged in gym class while the guys sat in the bleachers waging bets on “would Stephanie or Emily get knocked out first.”  It took a bit for me to figure out what they meant.  After it sunk into my blonde head, I don’t remember any feelings of shame.  I had already begun to learn how useful my breasts were as I sat in the bleachers getting shoulder and back massages from the same gambling guys. 

Outside of gym class, guys didn’t harass me anymore.  To be fair, I didn’t get anymore bad perms or anything, I only colored my hair with blue food coloring and ended up turning it green, but when you have boobs your hair just doesn’t matter anymore.  It seemed quite the opposite actually.  I didn’t get asked out a lot, but nearly every day there was a guy knocking on my door to talk to me on my porch.  Were they listening to all my bullshit and poetry just because I had breasts?  I was quickly learning to wield my magical chest powers.

But with great power comes great responsibility.  That means wearing a bra.  I don’t remember my first bra shopping experience, probably because it wasn’t as traumatic as it is now, but we’ll get to that later.  How exciting!  An extra piece of clothing to remember.  And one day, I did forget to put it on.  It wasn’t as horrible as the day I forgot deodorant since my breasts were still reasonably youthful and perky, which didn’t last but a few years thanks to all the jumping up and down.  And at least forgetting a bra doesn’t make you stink.

In ninth grade, my boobs even got me out of gym class.  At the same time, they terrified the ever-living shit out of me, those multi-tasking rascals.  I found a lump while conducting the self breast exam I had just learned.  I took it to my mother (the concern, not just the lump—I’m not surgeon), who also became concerned.  She took me to the doctor, who wasn’t as concerned but told me to keep checking them regularly.  I was put on medication and taken off of physical activity.  So I practically became the gym teacher’s aid for the remainder of the year, getting his tea and fixing it just the way he liked it, which helped prepare me for my fabulous life as an overweight waitress later.

Ever since this run in with fibrous tissue in my breasts, I have been terrified of breast cancer.  Maybe even before then.  When your breasts are obvious and everyone is talking about this obviously horrible thing that could happen inside them, it stands to reason that you should obviously be scared shitless.  It took me a long time to understand that boobs just aren’t smooth and you can’t freak out over every little thing that feels weird.  I still get my annual exams and do my monthly exams, which I urge you to do also.  Yes, even you men.  Your breasts may not be as prominent, but they can still kill you with undetected cancer, just like the rest of your body.

But fear of cancer isn’t the only negative thing that comes with having breasts.  If for a moment I enjoyed the attention they got me, I quickly learned that it wasn’t often a good thing that people paid too much attention to certain body parts.  Some guys hugged me for a little too long, or folded an arm in front of their chest so it would rub against my boobs as we embraced.  I started noticing that some of those massages started going from back to shoulder to collarbone to ummm…that wasn’t part of the deal.  There were times that I sat or laid in silence, pretending to be asleep or not to notice the horny fingertips attempting a sly grope-fest.  Other times I had the pleasure of slapping or punching a guy in the face.  I don’t know what separated these reactions; it wasn’t just the people.  Maybe it was more of the mood I was in or how achy my back was. 

That’s another problem with breasts, especially when they’re large.  They are heavy and your body has to work to hold them up.  You need to be strong, and see, as I mentioned before, I skipped on some gym classes, and I’ve had back problems ever since junior high.  It’s a catch-22 though, isn’t it?  I have large breasts so my back hurts so I want someone to rub it for me so they try to cop a feel so I feel used and shamed and learn that’s what men really like about me.  I sometimes felt like I was whoring myself for massages.  And I think that the guys looked at it as some form of payment.  Just for general information:  that’s not ok. 

Whoring away (I just wanted to see if I could start a paragraph with that, and I did) as I did, I learned how to use my assets.  I didn’t flash or flaunt them much.  Hell, I didn’t need to.  Their presence seemed to get things done.  In high school, I saw a shirt on T-shirt Hell that read, “I’ll be Using These to my Advantage” and “These” was large across the chest.  I wanted that shirt, but never got it.  I guess boobs don’t get you everything.  They did get me a great set of matching dents that press forever into either of my shoulders courtesy of the bra straps.

And oh, the bras.  Shopping for them quickly became one of the worst parts.  It was an annual excursion that has pained me since I surpassed the D-cup, and even more when I outgrew my DD bras.  First, I’d look for the plainest, ugliest sons-of-bitches on the racks, because they don’t make larger bras sexy.  They come in three colors:  white, black, and nude (which is the color I affectionately refer to as “Grandma”).  They don’t have patterns, lace, less than three or four crazy sets of hooks.  Many of the ones that actually offer good support and coverage would never allow you to show some cleavage in the turtlenecks you have to wear to cover the damn things.  And to keep them from getting chafed and smelling like sweaty testicles, Gold Bond Medicated Body Powder, which really just leaves them smelling like old man balls after an entire day of activity.

But sometimes a little powder and push-up just isn’t enough.  I was dying for a breast reduction by the time I was old enough to drink.  In a bar once, I was wearing the Playtex 18-hour bra that I’ve been purchasing over and over for more than a decade.  I don’t know what Playtex calls it, but I call it Alcatraz.  Anyway, I had a tight shirt on over it, and I was heading toward the bathroom.  A woman exited the bathroom, saw my breasts, and did a double-take.  I don’t remember which of us was more drunk as we argued over whether or not my breasts were real.  I do know for a fact that I was right, as usual.  I didn’t show her, but I think she wanted me to.  I told her my bellybutton would tell her that they were definitely real.  You know, because they talk since they’re so close and all. 

In another bar at another time, I told one of my mom’s friends that I wanted a reduction and she and her huge natural breasts were appalled.  She asked me why.  I told her because they hurt and I hate wearing bras and I want them to look nice.  She said natural was way better and not to wear a bra.  “What if you lost feeling in your nipples?” she screeched in horror.  I only shrugged.  Glare.  I do take her advice more often about not wearing a bra.  I hardly ever wear one inside my house, which may put off a couple of my friends, but if you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t be in my house.  Those who live in my house (mainly my boyfriend), however, only get irritated that they find bras all around the house because I just take them off as soon as I stop and throw it in a “get thee hence, demon” style.  Although my mom’s friend changed my mind about the constant necessity of bras, she didn’t change my mind about the reduction. 

That change of mind came much later.  After I had my son, precisely.  While I was pregnant, I decided to breastfeed.  I read books about the subject and I couldn’t think of anything negative about the process.  I was ready for these things to finally be put to their intended use.  I finally got to feed my son for the first time, I think.  I wasn’t really sure who it was because the little parasite just clutched alternating sides of my bosom for the weeks to come.  I got intimate with his cheek and ear and one eye, when it was open.  Every now and then I saw his milk-soaked face come up for a good breath or nap, but I didn’t see it long because I had to run to the bathroom and relieve myself or to the kitchen to replenish some of the vitamins he was mining from my body. 

As he matured into infancy, my son and I settled into our brilliantly symbiotic relationship with the breastfeeding.  He was an extremely healthy kid and I decreased my risk of breast and ovarian cancer.  I didn’t have to sell my soul to buy formula and I lost thirty pounds in three months.  I didn’t have to get up and make bottles and he didn’t have to wait for them.  I remember these things rather than the nipple leakage and engorgement.  Call me an optimist.

Neither the size of my breasts nor the shape mattered here, and it was wonderful.  Well, except for the fact that I could lie on my side and flop my nipple into my son’s mouth as he lay beside me on the bed.  Or that he could lie in my lap and eat without mommy having to strain her back.  I’m reminded of women in Africa who stretch their breasts to feed their babies on their backs as they work the fields.  Anyway, the point is that sometimes breast reductions interfere with milk production and flow, so I knew if there was any chance of having another child, then I couldn’t sever those lines of healthy living.

Even if I don’t have another child, healthy living is still the way to go.  Although I sometimes felt like my breasts prevented me from working out, or making a successful shot at the game of pool, I can make them smaller with a healthy diet and exercise, which my life needs for every part of me.  My mom always said the boobs were the first thing to go when you lost weight.  When I’m at a healthy weight, my breasts are also at a healthier weight; if I get really healthy I may even be able to fit into some of those pretty D-cup bras and have the core muscles to support it well.  That sounds hot.  Has to be a lifestyle change because it’s too easy to look down and just see breast and not think about the spare tire underneath.  Sometimes I lift them up and peer around and go “oh shit!”  I think I need more mirrors.

We all have love/hate relationships with our bodies in one way or another.  Struggles with health, beauty, ability, bowel control.  I acknowledge that many women wish they could endure my struggle, and maybe I’ve convinced them otherwise.  I must say I am rather pleased with my body in general.  In fact, these 29-year-old breasts have grown on me.  They’ve obviously helped shape who I am.  I can be proud of that.