I have prayed for you for as long as I could remember. While I overheard conversations from men who admired and preferred an ass growing up, you stood out the most to me on a woman. You gave dresses that extra pizazz and you were the determining factor in deciding swimsuits. Here you are. Our relationship started off great – you complimented my protruding hips during my teenage years, a great b-cup. C is for college so it’s only right that you grew to that cup size my second semester as a freshmen upstate. Everyone loved you. You made club outfits better, you gave oomph to V-neck tees, and cleavage became my ace boon coon. Then pregnancy happened and as the belly grew, so did you. A large C.
What’s going on here? Another pregnancy? My mother said D’s were unacceptable in a school and the same applied to my body. You and I weren’t meant to be because you caused me pain – back pain, Finding-Out-That-The-Pretty-Bras-Weren’t-Made-In-This-Size-pain, the Dammit, I Gotta Go Up A Shirt Size Now-pain. I didn’t imagine it’d be like this when I was 11. I guess I have to grow to love you because my bank account says that I can’t afford a reduction.
Breasts, in all of your glory, I guess, I thank you. For being one of the things my partner still finds attractive on me, for supplying my children with milk when they came home from the hospital at two days old, for playing the part of a cushion when I cross my arms, and for serving as a reminder about my Granny.
One of my grandmothers passed from breast cancer in 2005. She had her breasts removed and she didn’t let it define who she was. When I complain of discomfort, I’ll think of her, someone who really had to endure pain. I got it good; I’m healthy and blessed. You may not be so bad after all…