a special guest blog post from Debbie
There are many names for the two rounded soft parts on the person’s torso; breasts, melons, tatas, cream pies, gems, jugs, rack, knockers, boobies, and many more.
I did not develop my breasts until I was 14 years old. Yeah, I was a late bloomer. I have the smallest breast size from both sides of the family. I was a small B-cup on my wedding day at the age of 25. After kids, I became a small C-cup. I never liked my breasts. No matter what my weight was, back-in-the-day skinny to current-day obesity, my breasts never quite fit my body shape or weight. The tops and one-piece dresses are tricky. Either the neck scoop is too low, or I have to take my dress in because my breasts are not big enough to fill them in.
My breasts hated breastfeeding. I tried different relaxation methods, herbs-supported supplements, attended breastfeeding consultant sessions, and yet it failed me… twice. Just simply stopped producing milk. Still today, this is a touchy subject for me. I know my kids are healthy and smart little giants, but I still wonder if they will be better if my breasts weren’t so stubborn to provide the breast-milk-is-best-for-babies expedition.
Are these the reasons why I didn’t name my breasts? Heck! I named my buttocks, Fat Ass. And I loved it. “Fat ass” was the perfect name. I expressed it proudly. Those who know me well and my love for swear words are probably not surprised at the name. And my breasts…. sadly, still no name.
It wasn’t until I reached my sensual peak until age 38 that I began to notice them. “Them.” Am I finally acknowledging them? Is “them” a new name? After a while, I dressed differently, picking out more daring bras, and I was beginning to like Them finally. Them was so sexy when I wore that light green dress with flowers on it. Them was so confident when I showed up like a boss mafia lady to my friends 1920s-themed wedding. Even my friends complimented them. I giggled like a silly teenager and said, “They look great, don’t they?” Is this all in my head? My breasts haven’t changed. Why am I finally noticing Them? Why now? My brain is playing tricks on me.
At the age of 41, I lost one of Them. How can I lose Them when I just started to like Them? I cried in my car in a parking lot. I cried on the way to work, at work, and going home from work. I cried in the bathroom, in the shower, in my bedroom because I don’t want my kids to see me crying over some stupid blob on my chest. I am crying now while I am writing this. Why am I grieving so hard? Why are Them so important? Why Them have such a strong identity associated with me?
I hate you, Them. You tricked me. You made me like you and now you want to kill me. And now I have to lose you to save my life. FUCK YOU, THEM!