Day Two: A physical feature you like on yourself.
My breasts. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my breasts for…well, for as long as I can remember. In fifth grade, I was the girl who filled out a C cup and had to wear an underwire while all the other girls were still flat chested, which meant the boys made mooing sounds when I walked by while the girls hated me for no real reason. It also meant my uncle once said “You can barely keep those things off the table while you eat” at Christmas dinner” (why was he looking at an eleven year old’s body that way, any damn way). At seventeen when I was grossly overweight, however, I loved the fact that I could go to the dance club showing deep cleavage and get more attention than some of the skinny girls. At twenty-eight, I slapped a man who told me that “If you weren’t so goddamn fat, you wouldn’t have such big tits” (in my defense, he was inside me when he made that remark). At thirty I started to wonder if maybe my breasts were sagging (horror of horrors, I know). Flipping through fashion magazines, I’d see pictures of so-called models who were built like twelve year old boys (no cleavage to speak of, nothing to put in a bra) and think “If that’s the in thing, then what do men think of my flabby boobs?” A German man once referred to them as “Great natural hangers” and admittedly they DO hang, and I thought he was trying to tell me I was sagging…but no, English not being his first language, what he was doing (he explained) was complimenting me on having natural (as opposed to surgically enhanced/altered) breasts. Yes, they hang, they flop, the bra comes off and they look sort of deflated, like a balloon a few days after the party, but he also said they feel wonderful to the touch. He went on to say women who had implants felt as though they had plastic or rocks in their breasts, that he didn’t like laying his head on such breasts, he preferred real every time. I realized it wasn’t all about looks, that it’s more about how your lover feels when he’s with you. It stopped mattering that I don’t look like the girls in magazines, or that I don’t look perfect naked.