Tits

Rachel, post shopping for new bras.rainbow sleeves

I love the word tits. I love that it is an adjective of something rad / awesome from the 80s. I love how it feels, saying it out loud, TITS. I also like saying titties, breasts, boobs, bazangas, melons, lucious lumps; nearly any nickname you’ve heard for them would make me smile. Not only do I love saying these words, but I actually love everything about them, on nearly any and every woman. Every woman except—that is—for me.

I was in 5th grade the first time my bra strap was snapped. It was a classic scene; young girl in purple cords and a rainbow across the sleeves then chest then sleeves puffy shirt moving from class to class.  A gang of troublemakers are mumbling behind her, then one gets pushed out of the crowd towards her and suddenly “smack!” her back is as red as her face and she is running towards the school office with tears bursting. Go ahead a few years in school and now that same girl is being called a “slut” because her body looks like its heaving in all the wrong places, and because of something that happened that wasn’t her fault. A few years more and some sexual experiences under her belt, and now she is just used to it. Finally schools out (forever) and she is off to the military. Drill Sargent Dan is calling her name across a field, telling her to “strap that shit down private—wear a damn bra for crying out loud private!” She wishes the conversation was private, but its not, and its not the first time. And it won’t be the last.

In 1996 I had a breast reduction. I had 10 sticks of butter removed from each breast (this is also equivalent to 2 coke cans per boob is what they told me). It was the one of the best decisions I have ever made. I’ve always wanted to be flat chested, having the freedom to wear or not wear a bra if I wanted and not be obscene if I chose not to. They took me down from a size EE to a size C. It was glorious, for a while. Then, they grew back. No, I am not kidding. Little by little, pound by pound they crept back on. In the last few years I have just come to accept them and “love” them, as in I love you because you are family not because I actually like you.

The other day a friend of mine asked if I was on pintrest. She said she found some cool pins on this woman who learned how to size her own bras due to how much weight she was losing. I looked down at my mamas and back at my friend and smiled.

Of all the things that I have loved about this journey this has to rank right up there: my boobs are shrinking. They are still big, and my sweetie still loves them on my behalf, but they are getting smaller along with the rest of me. Its not surgery, but this officially tops that decision I made back in the 90s.

(Also, I love Tig Notaro. A lot.)

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