(Dad, you might want to skip this one, the title isn’t referring to the rack on my car. Let that be considered a warning.)
Before I get to the part of this post where I bitch, let me toot my own horn for a minute here — ever since I developed breasts, they’ve been the only part of my body that I haven’t hated. My weight has fluctuated, my head has seen it’s share of bad hair
days years, my belly has always been slightly round, and my legs were once called tree trunks (that one scarred me). But my boobs? I haven’t heard a complaint yet. I’d give anything for my friend’s legs, their hair, their flat stomach….but they’ve been known to want my chest. (However, you should know that despite my comfort with my chest, I’m not one to really flaunt them. Except for that one – okay, maybe two – halloween costume(s). Ahem. Moving on…) Before my losses, it was the one thing I worried most about when I thought about having babies – I didn’t want to lose my boobs. Oh how naive I was! I would love for that to be my only worry now.
Two weeks ago I looked down and realized my beloved chest had betrayed me after this last pregnancy – it now belongs to a woman who has birthed – and nursed! – a child, maybe even two. Except, in case you haven’t noticed, I’M CHILDLESS. Out of all of this shit, this might be the worst joke to have been played on me yet. Are you kidding me? When most women’s boobs turn into this, they at least have a baby to make it all worth it! What do I have? Ill-fitting bras and hospital bills? Hardly worth it!
I know that in light of things, this is pretty insignificant, I know that. But come on! Going through all of this for the last year and a half has definitely taken a toll on my relationship with my body…the least the universe could do would be to let me keep my boobs!