Yes, I am about to steal some of your precious time talking about breasts.
Also known as boobs mammary glands, boobies whatever you call them. Yes I own a pair (more than enough if you ask me) but none the less they are here. I think of my boobs as an annoying family member that came into my life unannounced, uninvited with no plans of leaving. A relative who came into my personal space without warning, a notification letter and didn’t even bother to pay rent or say thank you for the accommodation or the hot meals they received three times a day without fail. That relative that you cannot get rid of, chase away or make disappear because SNAP there is a bond that involves blood between you.
I am in no way saying that my maker was careless in his decision in creating me. Being on earth is a gift which I am thankful for. But dear God, my temporary stay could have somehow have been made easier. I feel that God might have left out the prep talk on how to deal with it all, he didn't give me the brief on the potential stares, discomfort, expense and gossip that would come with what he gave me. I feel he did not take more time in considering how getting the right bra size was suppose to happen if I will be raised by a single man who didn’t know the difference between a cup or a strap but bless his heart for trying. Really I didn't get that memo.
I was raised single handedly by a young dad who didn’t understand the purpose of a bra or its ridiculous pricing either.
I at times find myself asking questions on why after passing the C cup range God felt the need to be even more generous. I go through family pictures to find out exactly where the affliction originated from and why my mother’s flat chested genes did not have strength enough to even me out? My great grandmother was apparently the Dolly Parton who can be remembered for her gifts, but I still don’t see why that should be my problem today! I sit back and look at celebrities who pay heaps of dollars to have what their momma’s didn’t give them stuffed into their fragile bones.
I sit down and hear my colleagues look at me as though I’ve just smoked a bag of Hawaiian skunk by myself in the staff kitchen, when I say I want to have the babies permanently made smaller. I look and listen to them go on and on about how big is beautiful and that my husband will enjoy the cushion and fusion the two sisters will bring. They say that I am perfectly and wonderfully made by Yahweh and that God does not make mistakes. They rambled on and on about how he knew me before he formed me in my Mamzo’s womb. Yes I hear that, but the people who are speaking are what we classify as petite and dainty, and because of it, I dismiss them and what they say and put it all in the “to ponder on when I have nothing else to think about” section of my brain.
I dismiss them immediately because none of them get stares from old men who immediately fondle them with their eyes. They don’t get questions from strangers asking about their boobs and their authenticity. None of them have little kids asking “why are your boobs so big” and somehow find themselves turning into a child and rushing home to ask the nearest relative the very same question, and waiting for an answer! My colleagues can get bra’s at any shop without having to leave disappointed that the only size that was available was from the same isle that pensioners trying to be sexy wear. And no there is nothing sexy about the “cross my heart” range.
Before you call me ungrateful, I want you to know that I hate it when people are given gifts and then look those very same gifts in the eye and ask "Why are you here?" That’s just rude, offensive and more! But in the same breathe if that gift is more of a burden that eats away at your health, finances, joy, comfort and self love... let it go. In my case, perhaps God needs to either re-visit the drawing board or give me the tools, pastels, paper and mirror to re-draw the image I have of myself.
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