In middle school, a pack of aggressively lupine boys led by a sinewy jock named Jeremiah Cortez used to harass me between periods. Not about my oversized, hand-me-down blue glasses or the fact that I dressed like a boy. But about my breasts. Shoving me up against the lockers, grabbing at my breasts and leering as I squirmed away, terrified, it was one of their favorite school day activities.
In high school, the nickname bestowed upon me by all the popular kids — girls and boys alike — was “Shilslut.” What had I done to deserve this? Considering I’d never so much as kissed a boy until I was 16 (and even then, he was my one and only kiss until my freshman year of college) it wasn’t what you’re thinking. It was my breasts, which were — at this point — ensconced in a 34D bra.
At my second “grownup” job out of college, I worked in the human resources department of a Fortune 1000 company. I wore fairly conservative suits nearly every day. A few days before our annual meeting with all the presidents of the various companies we owned, my boss — the corporate HR director — called me into his office and told me to make sure I wore an outfit to the presidents’ dinner “where your tits aren’t hanging out.” The stories that center around my breasts are sadly endless.
Before I learned how to dress myself appropriately and dress for my body type (which, being completely retarded when it comes to fashion, took a fairly long time), even my good friends used to tease me. One year, one of them gave me scraps of fabric for my birthday. “To sew into your tops,” she said, “So that you don’t have your boobs hanging out all the time.”
It was difficult, learning what I could wear that would simultaneously cover up yet still look cute. A teenage girl doesn’t want to have to go around wearing sweatshirts and muumuus all the time just to ward off stares or inappropriate comments. And here’s the kicker: I don’t think my boobs are anything to write home about. All around me, every day, I see women with far more fabulous sweater puppies than mine ever aspired to be. In short, I don’t see the big deal about my breasts. I really don’t. Lately, I’ve taken a much more lax approach to dressing, usually wearing T-shirts and jeans or dresses with sweaters. Sometimes my breasts show; sometimes they don’t. I try not to think or care about it anymore. They’re there, and they’re not going anywhere.
That said, it’s taken me years to be comfortable with my body and the fact that it’s not a true reflection of who I really am. Thanks to middle school bullies, thanks to abusive bosses, thanks to all the horrible men (and women) over the years who have made ugly comments about me or my breasts without ever stopping to consider that two mounds of fatty flesh on my chest do not have anything at all do to with the person I am inside. I’m still self-conscious of my stupid breasts and often fantasize about getting breast reduction surgery (“I could wear sundresses!” “I wouldn’t sweat under my boobs anymore!” “My back wouldn’t hurt all the time!”). The grass is always greener…
Which brings us to today. Continue reading