What’s up boobs, I love ya (a love note to my tits)

This morning, I caught myself speaking to my boob in the shower, as if we were quite good mates. No, not both of them, just the one — Bobby (I’ll explain later).

I’d pulled out the mirrored door on the bathroom vanity so I could comfortably stand under the warm shower, while still getting a (rather daunting) view of my long and pasty body.

I did a once over and agreed that all was well for now in Rebecca land. Stomach; not as flat as it could be, but pretty good given current diet and exercise regime (what regime? I’ve replaced the gym with my laptop. Going to the gym doesn’t pay the bills you see). Next was shoulders and arms; fabo babes, I thought, keep up the good work. Vag, needs some manicuring, but all seems well down there too.

Then I came to my boobs. Bobby and Claudette. Bobby seemed to be sitting up too high, slightly above Claudette… I pulled my forearm up and stuck it under them, as a makeshift ruler, to see whether I was just imagining it or whether one was really higher than the other.

Damn it. It was true.

I massaged them a few minutes hoping that my 60 seconds of hand work would miraculously loosen the internal knot of scar tissue within. She felt tense and knotted in there and it pissed me off that she had refused to get better, 3 years after my surgery.

I flung my hands down by my side and tried to pretend that I didn’t care.

I heard my mind playfully say: “What’s up boob? I love ya” and I grinned with my eyes closed as the water trickled down my face.

See, I’m trying out a new thing where I try to abstain from spewing hateful, negative words at myself and my body — especially my poor little traumatized boob.

Let me catch you up.

About three years ago, at the tender & insecure age of 21, I decided I could wait NO LONGER for the arrival of my gigantic, womanly boobs. I became so impatient with God or the Universe — or whoever — for ‘jipping’ me of my one, true, womanly asset — and so I set out, determined to pay someone to give them to me.

I found someone, in the form of a stinking rich plastic surgeon, and in I went, waving my flat chested tits in his face and asking him to please fix me. His office was the same size as my entire house and he was dressed impeccably with annoyingly perfect, white teeth.

Unsurprisingly, plastic-surgery-man was delighted by my predicament and promised to sew me on some new tits immediately.

The surgery came and went and the next two weeks were all a blur (given my diet of codeine, Valium and panadeine fort). I slept in peace knowing I would soon be acquainted with my perfect, womanly tits.

Alas, fast forward six months and there I was, still discontent.

Yes, they were now larger, but I had apparently developed a rare breast augmentation side effect called capsular contracture. Don’t google it (like I did) it’ll make it seem more horrific than it really is. The Doc said it was just in my left breast (Bobby), Claudette was just chillin there, being a legend, and so on I continued with my ‘I HATE MY BOOBS’ internal melodrama.

I had two options, plastic-surgery-man said:

1. I could top-up his (already sizable) bank account with another small fortune and he would remove the one, strangled implant, and replace it with a new one… or;

2. Save myself the trauma, go down to visit his physio friend, and have her attempt to massage out the build-up of scar tissue in there, instead.

He assured me that Bobby was actually not doing as badly as she could have been, and that, to the untrained eye, you probably couldn’t tell that there was something funky going on up in there.

I pondered for a millisecond and decided I was too much of a whimp to go straight back onto the operating table — that, and the fact that I couldn’t live with myself knowing that my tits would end up costing the equivalent of a house deposit (kinda, sorta, depends how big ya house is) — so I took myself off to this physio woman instead, where I enrolled in weekly ‘boob massages’ for the next however long it was.

She ordered me to massage my own boobs as homework every night and perform a series of weird upper body stretches to encourage the pesky scar tissue to break up and disburse. This was my life for the next year or so that I worked with her. Every now and then I’d have a cry and she’d remind me to stay positive & not get down on myself.

After a time, along with strict body-love talk, Bobby responded, and freed up nicely (almost perfect breast symmetry again, Yus). She’s mostly alright now but I notice the minute I start incorporating any upper body/peck/chest movements into my exercise routine, Bobby tightens back up again in protest.

Yeah, its annoying but I found that the whole, swearing, carrying on, hating on my boob thing, only seemed to make my situation worse. There’s been scientific research to back this up. They all conclude that negative self talk tends to fuck most shit up. Take a look at the water experiment here — where some genius decided to talk lovingly to water and see how it responded) and the same thing to a container of rice — the results will blow your mind.

So instead of hating on my body, I’m accepting that this is the hand I’ve been dealt with and I’m going to just love the shit out of my boobs anyway. Each time I catch myself scrutinizing my tits in the mirror, and my mind starts playing that all too familiar ‘woe is me, my tits aren’t perfect’ track, I unhook myself from the thought and refuse to let myself get caught up in it.

Instead, I try to be light-hearted and talk to my tits as if I love them, like: “hey Bobby, hey Claudette, You’re doing awesome and I love ya.”

It’s working out for me nicely so far.

(Originally posted here)