Can We Talk About My Tatas?
Remember when I was an oily-faced chubby pre-teen, praying to you, asking if my breasts would finally grow?
Adult me is ashamed that young me even wasted your time with such frivolities. Sorry about that. But You made me, so in my mind, it made sense that You could accelerate the development process at your whim. Besides, I prayed for other things, too, like world peace. I tried very hard to be only a partially self-absorbed pre-teen. After praying, I’d pass out the minute my head hit the pillow, eager to wake up each day to see if You’d answered my prayers and if they’d finally come.
Then, one day, they did.
They weren’t quite as firm or plump as I had seen on TV. Baywatch’s Pamela Anderson set unrealistic expectations in my young teen mind. But they were mine nonetheless. I thanked You for listening to my prayers knowing that in the totality of all You do, this one prayer seemed inconsequential, and yet somehow You found the time to answer it.
They were a great pair too!
Seeing me through good times and bad. In my twenties, they perked up in my Victoria Secret’s push-up bra on special occasions. They relaxed in my sports bra when I took an occasional jog. (Okay, in my youth, I rarely moved, let alone jogged. I should know better that euphemism has no place in a letter to God.) I dusted the tops with bronzer to make them sparkle when we went out for late nights in New York City.
I reminded my breasts all the time just because you aren’t the biggest, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t shine the brightest. My immature sense of self was wound with how they felt and how they looked.
When they felt special, I felt special.
When they felt flat, I felt flat.
When they felt criticized, I felt criticized.
I blame Baywatch again for this. And a society that emphasizes breasts as sexual items and teaches that femininity and value correlate with cup size. A…