By Rory Freedman on February 17, 2009

Boobs

What is it about boobs, anyway? Why do they make people so insane? And by “people,” I don’t just mean men. You can hardly make it twenty-four hours without someone you know complaining about her boobs in some way, shape, or form. And you can’t make it twenty-four minutes without seeing fake boobs on TV.

How did this madness start? At what point in time did it occur to women that a certain shape or size or bounce of boobs would be considered more viable than another? I sincerely doubt that cavewomen were sitting around signing and motioning and grunting about their own and each other’s breasts. I suppose it doesn’t really matter how or why boobs became so important in our culture. But to me, it does matter that millions of women are endangering their lives, undergoing anesthesia and surgery, and forever altering their God-given bodies to have different breasts than the ones they were born with. For what? (Just to be clear, I’m not talking about women who are disfigured or who have had mastectomies.)

I know women constantly say, “If it gives you confidence and makes you feel better about yourself, than why not?” Well, for starters, how about building confidence from the inside? Having small breasts isn’t a problem. Thinking your small breasts are less acceptable than large breasts is. If your breasts are somehow “wrong,” than what’s to stop you from thinking your hair, cheekbones, nose, lips, wrinkles, legs, butt, and stomach are “wrong,” too? Where does it end? Do you just look at yourself and see what “needs to be fixed”? At what point do you say, “I’m fine just the way I am.” Can you say it?

Believe me, I’m no stranger to self-critiquing: I pinch the insides of my thighs, I hold my stomach in, and I lift my ass up in front of the mirror and think to myself, “If only blah blah blah, then I’d be happy.” And as a woman with 32A-minus boobs, I’ve spent my fair share of time imaging how life would be different, better, easier even, with boobs. Sadly, until I was thirty-two years old, I wished my boobs were bigger. What a waste of time. What a waste of self-love and -acceptance. What a waste of me.

Somehow, this year, at the age of thirty-three, it occurred to me: My boobs are perfect. Just because I say so. And goddamn it, I love my small boobs now! I feel so lucky and blessed to have these exact boobs. Not because they’re small, like, “Ha ha, don’t you big-boobed women wish you had small boobs?” No, I feel lucky and blessed because they’re healthy, happy boobs. Women are being diagnosed with breast cancer left and right. To pine away for bigger boobs or bouncier boobs or smaller boobs is not only stupid, it’s pitiful. And on a less dramatic scale, I love my boobs now because it’s so much more gratifying than hating them. It simply feels good loving the skin I’m in. Period.

While so many of us walk around thinking of our breasts as accessories or man magnets (or women magnets, for our lesbian friends), we forget the primary reason we have them to begin with: Breastfeeding. Duh. I can only imagine the bliss of looking down at your newborn nursing and finally seeing your breasts for what truly they are—miraculous, precious gifts from Mother Nature herself. All mammals nurse their young. But we’re the only ones running around obsessing about our boobs and dressing them up like Yorkie terriers!

Life is too fleeting and too valuable to waste one minute feeling bad about our boobs or any other parts of our bodies. For whatever reason, the world we live in values a specific physical aesthetic. But if we can remember that we’re spiritual beings encased in skin and flesh—whether we represent that physical aesthetic or not—life can be dramatically different and dramatically fulfilling. Great hair, perfect boobs, long legs…they’re all fools’ gold. They mean nothing other than someone got lucky in the gene department.

Whether they’re big, small, saggy, or pert: love your boobs. And while you’re at it, love your fat ass, too.

 

 

   
 

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