Most women get breasts around puberty. I got them at age 28. Well, I got them again at age 28, two years after breast implants and I were deemed “incompatible.” The week I moved to Denver I got breast implants. “I don’t want titties, I want breasts” I kept telling my surgeon, terrified that I’d wake up not looking like myself. That’s what I wanted: to look like myself. Or to look like what I imagined myself looking if my breasts had ever landed when they were supposed to. All adolescence I kept waiting, this year will be the year, I know it…
What I missed all those years in high school was that I was just barely not too thin to disappear. Softness didn’t belong on my body. I had no room for it. But I wanted breasts. I’d just never considered that they were soft.
After three popped breast implants, apparently they do not double for shock absorbers in the burpee, who knew, I stood in a dressing room waiting to get fitted for a bra. I was hesitantly happy to be back in my original body, mostly because I knew these babies were here to stay. A woman walked in to help me and when I told her what happened all she said was, “of course those are your breasts, babe. Your body wouldn’t work otherwise. Anything else they’d be too big.”
Softness has been a theme in my life over the last few years. What would it look like if all of this – my body, my training, my relationships – were softer, gentler, kinder? It’s as if my body was a sensei waiting for me to learn my great lesson. “Ah. Yes. You are now ready. Here, I gift you, breasts.” They got bigger, all of a sudden. I had to verify with the man I was sleeping with at the time, “they’re huge!” I mean you could actually cup them. Let’s not get too crazy here.
But they are mine. I just didn’t see it. She was right, I wouldn’t make sense any other way.