i didnt know my girls werent invited

written march 13, 2007
thought this was a good fit for the boob blog. :)
lisa

strange thing happened to me tonight, i went to a networking mixer i was facilitating, hosted by a group member. she lived in a mansion.

as anyone who knows me knows, my cleavage, like earrings, is an accessory i wear with pride pretty much most of the time.

the host said "i am going to give you a scarf to wear to cover that. this is an orthodox home."

i wasnt letting them tumble out of a tight top or anything. my wrap dress was loose fitting albeit a little low cut- nothing crazy, on the scale of my wardrobe, a 4 or 5 (10 being 'holy knockers, batman!)

i was put off by this- not offended but i felt stupid. my cleavage is usually welcomed anywhere. i never thought it might be offensive in someones home! i felt rejected-

my cleavage is a form of self-expression. my cleavage is part of me. i felt like i wasn't accepted. like a harlot or a jezebel. and in pure lisa-fashion, i rebelled, respectfully:

"well... i can just pin it, or cover it up" i pulled my dress closed more. i'm sorry, i am just not the scarf wearing type.

its like bringing your kids to a party and then finding out kids arent allowed- its not like anyone warned me.

so, the girls stayed. they just laid low and acted discreet for the night.

modesty? whats that? i can certainly respect ones religious values, especially when i am a guest in their home, but personally, i think god likes my cleavage.

boob thoughts

I used to shy away with a secret glance when my mother traipsed around naked, just the way my daughter does nowadays, when mine are out in all their glory. I don’t think of hiding them at home. Not like I walk around with my boobs hanging out all the time, but in jaunts from the shower to the bedroom, or getting dressed or changing outfits. I catch her peeking at them as quickly and as casually as she can, then looking away. She is probably wondering, like I did, when I looked at my mom’s “Is that what mine will look like?”

I haven’t seen her breasts since before she had them. I have no idea what they look like, except that they are growing fuller, heavier. Other than that, complete mystery. My daughter’s modesty is in direct correlation with my lack of modesty.

Twelve years ago, when I was nursing her, I loved the sensation when she would first latch on and the milk would start to flow. I, giver and sustainer of life, never more powerful. She, a brand new person, looking up at me with blue eyes as wide and bright as the sun. She and I so connected. Now she has breasts of her own and in the privacy of my own thoughts, I wonder what they look like.

Breasts are such curious body parts. One thing I have learned: you can never predict what a woman’s breasts will look like. You can try. You can imagine where the ariola rests, where the nipples are arranged, sure you can attempt to picture them. But they will always surprise you.

I remember being twelve, my breasts were awkward and uncertain. My best friend Jenny Berner was way ahead of me in her development. We often changed in front of each other during that time. To show each other how comfortable we were with each other. But I was never comfortable. Her body was so different from mine. Her breasts heavy and huge, mine mere mosquito bites. She told me one day that my breasts looked like pig snouts. I proceeded then to own this. I owned it for twenty years. Hearing her voice in my memory often. Pig snouts. “Your boobs look like pig snouts.”

It wasn’t until recently, within the last nine or ten years that I finally realized they do not look like pig snouts. Not one bit.

In fact, they were, and are, quite lovely. Perhaps one of my best features.

Growing Up in the Huge Category

My mother is Huge.
My grandmother is Huge.
Betsy Sheetz is Huge.
I am Huge.
I am in the Huge Breast Category.

I love my breasts. They've been big since fourth grade. I thought I was just fat but, my best friend's brother told me it wasnt' fat - it was breasts and that I had nice ones. But, he also advised me, I needed to get myself a training bra because it looked like I had a mountain on top of a mountain underneath my dance leotard. he was gay - but he still liked my breasts.

I Junior High, Betsy Sheetz and I were all the rage. We had the biggest ones in the school - even bigger than the ninth graders. We were instantly popular with the boys - which just angered the girls. So, we got categorized as the 'sluts'. I'd never even kissed a boy. But, I was a slut because I had Huge Breasts. It didn't matter, though. I was thick skinned. My breasts stood between me and the onslaught oto my reputation - absorbing their pre-teen bitterness like a bullet-proof.....breast.

I never understood the fascination myself. I wanted to be a runner but, my breats protested and twisted me into submission. Demanding that I adhere to the persona that comes with being in the Huge Breast Category, I became a majorette - forsaking the Athletic category. Breasts are jealous that way.

Rebel that I am, I took up hiking, camping, skiing and canoeing. My breasts, locked in perpetual uni-boob pose,reluctantly indulged my athletic aspirations under constraining sports bras. I live in perpetual jealousy of the flat-chested granola girls I hike with. In hiking, the weight of the pack is crucial. Invariably, as I trudge the last few miles of the trail my mind wanders to the extra three punds of boobage I'm forced to carry with me.

But! the men! My God! Like Homer and donuts, the men are mesmerized! It's a phenomena, really. If I could have detached my breasts from my shoulders and left them on a bar stool in Baltimore I'm sure the men would be standing there still....talking to them.

20 Years

My breasts - the enemies I carry with me every day.

I've got another twenty years or so with these forward-facing appendages - time enough to suckle babies, I hope; time enough to lure their future father into my lair, I pray.

It will start small - the little lump that tells me the enemy has aw0ken.

Our feud goes back generations. This is the same foe that killed my grandmother and scarred my mother.

Maybe in another ten years, when I have my own family to live for - a child for whom to set an example - maybe then I will actually get serious about my 'monthly' self exams. Ten years - that will give me ten years of practice before C-Day, right?

Of course, I'm really hoping for a cure, hoping that I'll never have to get serious about my sleeping enemy. That's why I don't do monthly breast exams - it would be like losing faith.

What I really need to get serious about is finding a man - one who will love me boobless. You know, a leg man.

--Abigail Davis