Apparently, my boobs are broken. I mean, I knew that. I should say, I speculated that but to actually hear it confirmed by a medical professional was harder than I had imagined. It shouldn’t have surprised me; I have two kids. I breastfed said kids for 11 months each. I gained and lost tons of weight during and after each pregnancy. And while my boobs were once huge, they’re not now. The result is that they droop, they sag, they’re not pretty and they most certainly aren’t sexy. Sexy isn’t even in the ballpark of what we’re talking about here.
And therein lies the problem. I like sexy. Hell, I started a whole business about feeling and looking your sexiest. Sexy is important to me. And overall, I am pretty happy with how I look. I generally like my body these days, having worked hard to get it to where it is. I like how I look in clothes. I like how I look in lingerie (the multitude of boudoir photos I have of myself speaks for itself). And (generally) I like how I look naked. Except my boobs. My boobs have pissed me off since I stopped nursing my son. They’re one of the few parts of my body that I’m self conscious about and I really, REALLY hate feeling that way. Not to mention, I’m a boob girl; I love cleavage, I love fancy lacy bras, I love low cut shirts. I think they’re feminine and sexy and hot. And while I found a way to mask their demise by good bras and strategic poses, I am constantly thinking about how much better they’d look with some help and how much better I would feel about myself if that was the case.
See how I’m holding them up? I’m squeezing the dear life out of them just to get that small bit of cleavage. Sure, the pose works but I hate seeing what happens as soon as I let go….
So that’s how I found myself in a plastic surgeon’s office last week, naked, talking about what needed to be done to make me and my boobs happy. Turns out, my boobs require a lot more work than I had anticipated. It’s not impossible to fix them. Just much more labor intensive and expensive than was budgeted. And while that was a surprise, what shocked me the most was how hard it was to hear someone confirm that he saw exactly what I feared others would see. Hearing the doctor say the very things that I spent hours excusing in my head made me incredibly…deflated (no pun intended). Even worse, when I told my mom and friends what the doctor said, they all agreed in this horrible “oh that’s not surprising, we’ve seen you naked” kind of way. WHAT?!
When I went to tell Lumberjack how bad the damage was both physically and financially, he did what any good rom-com screenplay writer would’ve scripted…he told me he didn’t care at all. That he didn’t see what everyone else saw. That he thinks my boobs are possibly my sexiest body part. That he would stay buried in there every minute of every day if he could. (Good man.)
For a while, I felt better. If he’s ok with them, then I should be too. If he thinks they’re sexy, then I should too. Every time I saw myself in the mirror, I’d think about what Lumberjack said and pretend to be ok with them. But if I am being honest, I didn’t feel like he did. And while I can be many things, I can’t be a pretender. I can’t pretend to be ok with sub-par boobs just because my husband is. I can’t pretend to not have them matter to my overall sexuality. It might sound petty and it might sound shallow, but having saggy sacks for boobs makes me feel sad and unsexy and I’m not ok feeling that way.
Let me just take a moment here to interject that I know this is Breast Cancer Awareness month and that I am infinitely lucky that my boobs, while droopy, are perfect and healthy. Sadly, I know there are many gorgeous women out there who cannot say the same. And I don’t share this rant without knowing that so many of them would cry “I wish I had your “problem”!” at me from a chemo chair. I promise I mean no offense by posting this.
But this isn’t a story about ugly boobs. This is a story about realizing that we have to turn ourselves on before we can authentically turn on anyone else. I need better boobs to turn myself on and feel my sexiest. Does that make me shallow? Does that make me petty? I don’t care, frankly. Because part of being your sexiest self (a big part) is looking how you want to look so YOU can feel sexy about YOU. Do that, look sexy for yourself and no one else, and I guarantee others will notice. In spades. And if something in your life is preventing you from doing that, fix it. Because “making do” is another way of saying “I’m not worth it” and you are. You are worth feeling as sexy and as beautiful and as gorgeous as possible.
So even though my boobs are broken, my spirit isn’t. Because the most amazing thing about being human is that we have the power to change, to fix what we don’t like. Inside or outside. Regardless of what people say should or should not be important to us. Are you in? Because your sexiest self is waiting. And she’s getting impatient. xo