It’s 3:00 am, and I’m waiting for this guy, Jeff maybe? No, Drew! No, that’s not right, let’s call him Shane, after Shane Chen, the inventor of the hoverboard. We’ll call him Shane because he left me with two cringe-worthy memories, one about my breasts, which is coming up shortly, and this one, which I still can’t fully explain.
Shane is looking for his left sock so that he can be on his merry way. We just had approximately 30 minutes of clumsy, lonely, drunk sex, 15 minutes of which included him inexplicably hovering his hands above my thighs with his eyes closed. To be clear, he pulled my pants off, and, in silence, slowly moved his hands about two inches above my thighs. After two minutes, I asked what he was doing. Shane replied, “shh, I’m a musician, just go with it.” (Side note: he plays the saxophone, and when I made a Simpsons reference, he didn’t get it, shame on Shane.) After five minutes, I was sure he was sucking the life force out of my body like one of those aura vampires. Maybe he was taking my soul, and I didn’t feel any different, just slightly soberer and more impatient to get my orgasm and have him go. Finally, the rest of the nitty-gritty happens, and it’s over.
My first Tinder hookup is over. He pulls his pants on and comments on how surprised he is that I was good in bed. “Welp, it can’t get more insulting than that,” I think to myself. He takes a drink from the courtesy water I put out, gulps, and says, “Great breasts. One’s bigger than the other, yeah? Yeah, the right, the right one is slightly bigger than the other.” Five more minutes of forced banter as I take this in comedic stride and he’s out the door.
Then I’m left in the dim light of my room, staring at my apparently very visibly askew breasts. I know my breasts different sizes, asshole. I also know that even though it’s just an anatomical fact for most women, one of my biggest sexual anxieties has come true—a guy noticed it, a guy commented on it. It’s just not in my head; it is noticeable! Does everyone know? Thank goodness I never venture into a public setting without a bra, I say to myself. That’s definitely what saves me from everyone noticing my weird boobs.
For days I wondered how noticeable it was. Did Shane feel it while he felt me up? No way, they’re still the same cup size. It’s not like holding a grapefruit and a tangerine. Did he say this to all women? Maybe. Maybe Shane the Musician is so much of an asshole, he just has a Rolodex of insults he throws at his one night stands before he saunters out the door to go stroke his Saxo-mo-phone.
Then I spent some extra days chastising myself. I tell myself that’s what I get for going on a Tinder date—what did I expect? A nice guy? “Alright, you’re young, but not naive, girl, you knew what you were getting into,” I tell myself. I go on more dates: Tinder and non-Tinder. I sleep with more men, nice and not-so-nice. After each one I take that body to the bathroom, pee, then look in the mirror. At first, I agonized that my differentially sized breasts are the first thing they noticed when I got naked. I wait for this new guy who’s going to point at my tits and call them Tiny and Bug Eye.
Eventually, I find myself starting to hope for someone to say it; I even hope that Shane calls again. So I can tell him or the next asshole what I should have said in the first place. Yup, that’s right, my tits are uneven. The left one is smaller than the right, by the slightest amount. My areola are different shapes too. So are your mother’s, your sister’s, your wife and your neighbor’s. Those breasts that fed you, and bounced on top of you, still look great, baby boy. They look great! In a T-Shirt, in a dress, in a sports bra, or sweating and flopping freely in a sauna with 15 pairs of other, misshapen breasts. Our breasts are fucking perfect because they’re ours.
I haven’t had that epic moment where I use my mattress as a soapbox, puff my bare chest out and stand up to Shane or whoever else. That historic moment probably won’t happen, but that’s fine because I already gained acceptance and approval for my breasts.
I won my own A&A through repetition. Like so many, after sex, after showers, after work, in the mornings, etc., I repeatedly stare at my bare chest in the mirror. Not because I’m in love with myself now, or because I got revenge by gaining a six-pack. But to remind myself that this chest and this body is what I got. I look in that mirror and refuse to hate my body. And there are days I want to hate my squinty right eye, my crooked teeth, my bum knee, and my flapjack left boob.
Acceptance came through nights and mornings of running my hands on myself and making sure I’m still all there. And reminding myself that this is my body and these are my breasts. They need to be able to count on me, to take care of them, nurture them as much as I can. And to appreciate them more than any sexual partner ever even tries. I remember that this body is mine. It’s all I have, and I’m all it has, and that makes us even.
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Featured image from iPhoto.