I will be 38 this summer.
I am acutely aware that I am too old for mini skirts. (The street sign on Stacy London's show 'What Not To Wear' says 'No Mini-Skirts After 35'. I have spider veins on my left leg this summer that I know I didn't have last year.
Yesterday, I tried on a dress (an A-DOR-able dress) and the hem rested about four good inches above a knee cap that suspicously resembled a potato that has been left in the back of a warm cupboard too long. Soft, wrinkly, with a couple of nobby things on it and sprouting whiskers. Yeech.
Other than the hem-line and Aunt Vera's legs, which I somehow inherited and she wasn't really my Aunt (I also got her large facial moles), the dress fit pretty good. It had solid shoulder straps in it, a delicate black bow sewn into the front and a great peek-a-boo slit in the chest, offering the illusion of cleavage without showing too much boob-crack.
You know, boob-crack. The space between the breasts that closes in and disappears about thirty seconds after you put on a bra, leaving more of a bum crack than a delightful valley between two solid, sloping mountains. (if you've been blessed with lovely tiny breasts, you may not be familiar with boob-crack).
Please understand, even though I may sound critical, I really do love and appreciate my breasts.
When I was sixteen they were outstanding really. Ripe and firm and perky with light brown nipples the size of quarters. When I got pregnant for the first time and gained 70 pounds my breasts of course, became the property of a nursing baby (and every nurse that grabbed them voraciously and tried to jam them into my newborn son's mouth).
My second baby took to nursing like a hotdamn. She nursed for one year exactly. My third nursed for a complete two. My fourth for two as well. Five plus years of fill and dispense, just like a milk cow. Repeated weight gain and weight loss. Hard on the tissues.
Years later, when I am 15 pounds heavier, my breasts are happy. They seem like they have life. They're bouyant. Almost joyful. When I am down 15 pounds I am the one who is pleased with their appearance in my clothes. Pleasant lumps each staying dutifully put inside a great bra. But out of clothes... how could they be described?... Deflated. Lacking. Empty. All stretched out and practically floppy.
Someone out there just said... two words, Kim... 'breast implants'.
A woman can just look at the wondrous breasts that women are buying to boost their self esteem. Three grand could buy you a phenomenal set of smashing breasts. New breasts could mean a walk on the beach in a swimsuit that doesn't need underwire and spaghetti strap tank top with complete confidence and several sideways glances. New breasts may even mean a more turned on husband. (Could you imagine him more turned on than he is already with the breasts you have now? You'd never get any sleep.) Just imagine. Breast implants, like botox and weight loss make you believe, you could finally be happy.
Then people everywhere, men and women alike, would notice and say to themselves, 'Ooh, now she has great breasts.' Afterall that is what is most important in a woman. No?
We're so conditioned, I do it without even meaning too. Notice other women's breasts, I mean. Maybe it is simply wishful thinking. What if my breasts were that great? Like the 20-something waitress at the lunchspot with the long black ponytail and a body-shimmer of sparkles in her cleavage. Or the young woman at the store who has a lovely shape and no need for a bra.
And while at the grocery store, awaiting my turn through the checkout, I examine the countless tabloids, magazines and pocket books with the cover model pushing her flawless, airbrushed cleavage out at me. There are superstars and actresses in designer dresses, stunning shoes and fantastic perfectly placed breasts.
And I feel defeated for a flick of a second.
And I sigh. Hurumph.
I try to be kind to myself. I am a work in progress. I am lucky I have two breasts. This makes me happy. I have spent countless hours of joy watching my miracle children doze while nursing, with one tiny hand wrapped around my finger. My husband loves my breasts just the way they are. Full of milk; empty and floppy; 15 pounds heavier or lighter, he thinks they're lovely.
Ultimately, breast implants aren't an option for me. I haven't reached the point where two plastic saline orbs shoved through my armpits and six weeks healing time sounds like a viable option. Besides, I've got two perfectly good breasts that looks just fine stuffed into white stretch satin or black lace bra.
And I've got three daughters who have boobs, too. They need to know that even though TV, movies and magazines would you to think otherwise, there IS more to a woman's life than boobs. In fact the most joyous and fulfilling moments of my days have very little to do with them. They're just along for the ride.
So, I'm going to back to buy that lovely summer dress with the black bow in the middle. I'm taking my soft potato knees, Auntie Vera moles and boob-crack to three wedding dances this summer.
And I am going twirl around the dancefloor with a smile on my face and show my girls (daughters, that is) that the least of what makes a happy woman is found in her bra.
- silenced by an unseen assailant or heckling from the second row, they were diverse; they were exuberant; they were alive with laughter and song and dance.