On breasts and boobs

Photo credit: Flickr | bilbord99

I had really intended to start this year off telling you all about a new project I am starting next week to undertake 12 awesome adventures this year. I’ve been crafting the blog post for the past three days and was all set to hit publish today. But all that is going to have to wait one more day because, my gentle snowflakes, I am mad tonight. Mad as hell! And I have a bunch of thoughts that I really need to get off my chest.

No pun intended....

Last night at the bar a drunk guy hit on my - repeatedly. I am so out-of-practice with such things that I didn’t even realize it at first. When he came up and whispered to me that I “had to dance on the bar before the end of the night,” I laughed. I assumed he was admiring my mad dancing skills (because, obviously…) and was only encouraging me to have more fun. I figured out he was a lecherous douche bag, however, when he came up to me half an hour later and proclaimed that I had nice breasts.

I was so taken aback I didn’t know how to respond. I was all like, “Uhm, thank you? And you know that tall, shaved head, goateed, full-sleeved tattooed dude up there singing karaoke right now that could put you to sleep with one punch is my husband, right? Oh, and also… NOT appropriate.”

His response? “I just thought you should know.”

Motherfucker, I know I have an impressive rack. We are intimately acquainted as a matter of fact. And, truth be told, I had even started to leave the house in something that showed it off earlier that night. However, I decided to opt for comfort (and warmth) instead and threw on long-sleeved t-shirt before walking out the door because my husband - the ONLY person other than the masochist at the mammography center who should be concerned with my boobs - already knows what’s under the t-shirt. Hence, I decided there was no real need to put them on display. I wasn’t going out to put on a show - I was going out to have some fun.

And I was having fun… so much fun. Good company, good drinks, good karaoke (the Mr. - not me), lots of laughs, a little (obviously awesome) dancing. It was all good. Until you had to come along and reduce me down to a few body parts that you somehow decided to lay enough claim to that you could, publicly and without shame, comment upon them.

Now I know we all do stupid things when we are drunk. You know, like that time I didn’t punch the asshole at the bar that thought it was okay to comment on the current state of my breasts. But how fucking dare you?

I spent a lifetime hiding my body from the world behind a large layer of fat. I did so because I was bound and determined that anyone who loved me was going to have to prove that they loved me for more than just my physical appearance. (Seriously, just go with the theory - I don’t have the wherewithal to explain it all tonight.)

Through five years of hard - really, fucking, hard - work, I have finally reclaimed my body. So much so that I let a surgeon slice me open in an effort to keep it around just a little while longer. In doing so I am fully aware that I am opening myself up to some unwanted attention. Trust me… my body has been the centerpiece of any conversation I have had for the past nine months.  Eventually, however, I always steer the conversation to what really matters - how I feel as opposed to how I look.

And last night I felt good… so good. I was celebrating! In 2015 I have worked my ass off (literally) crafting a good marriage, a happy kid, a fruitful career, a healthy body, a clean and organized sanctuary (minus the basement - I can’t be held accountable for the basement) and eleventy-billion thoughtful and smart papers and presentations for my Masters program.  

I had earned that night of carefree fun so many times over this last year.

And here’s the thing… you didn’t notice me because of my boobs. There were lots of women at the bar with beautiful bodies last night. (Trust me, I peeked.) You noticed me because I am a confident woman who is (finally) comfortable in my own skin. A woman who is free and unafraid. A woman who laughs and celebrates and revels in life. A woman who also happens to have a biological advantage (or disadvantage in some instances) on top.

That’s what you noticed, you fucking moron. You are just too ignorant to actually name it.

It is no wonder to me tonight how women get so screwed up in this society. We are such complex creatures - full of hopes, dreams, goals, hard work, love and beautiful souls. Yet, in a moment’s notice, all of it can be erased by one drunk douche bag in a dingy bar on the eastside of Detroit with a simple proclamation that reminds you that, to a large part of the population, your primary function remains being a set of eye-pleasing body parts.

I call bullshit. And the next asshole that tries to belittle this amazingly complex woman gets punched… or a thirty minute dissertation on the patriarchy.

Probably the dissertation.