Today the goddess speaks about herself:
I tend to show a lot of cleavage these days. One could say that I am in the décolletage phase of life. That's somewhere between mom and crone, isn't it?
After spending years hiding my perfect breasts due to misplaced modesty, I have been celebrating them. Modesty flew out the window with six straight years of breast feeding; probably within the first six feedings truth be told. Now, I try to make the girls the center of attention whenever I can.
I was such such a tomboy as a preteen. I was embarrassed to get breasts, which to my great anguish appeared early. By 11 a bra was a good idea, by 12 a necessity to cover the dark crowns and constant nipping. The tact I chose for dealing with the onset of womanhood was to ignore it as best I could. Thus, I am still surprised every time I get my period. These things have a way of not being ignored, however. Boys and girls alike pointed them out to me. I was mildly teased by boys. The girls were more prone to open dialog. One of my best friends unexpectedly broke into tears, saying how unfair it was that I had breasts and a waist when she had neither. She couldn't see how I could possibly be embarrassed to shower in P.E. (I believed everyone was embarrassed, I never questioned that we were all in the same boat, apparently my friend thought differently). My father even commented, not in an icky way, but because he was my dad his outward acknowledgment that I was a girl caused me great shame. All of these factors: tomboy, early puberty, teasing, jealousy and shaming contributed to my not making the most of a really good thing. I covered those beauties up during some of their best years -- certainly their pertest.
For the past many years now, I have tried to rectify the injustice I did to myself, and to the rest of the world by hiding my light under a bushel. My friends and family can all confirm that I have done everything in my power to tastefully display 'The Girls'. It's not as easy as it would have been before gravity took hold, but I do my best. Now a bra is not just something to keep my nipples from showing, but a harness to keep the set from blending into my belly, creating a blob around my waist. They're not perfect anymore, but I haven't heard any complaining from the peanut gallery.
This brings me to the anxiety I have been experiencing for the past year. A future heart surgery is going to bring a blight to my cleavage. I am going to have a humdinger of a scar right where I generally try to create a focal point for my audience. ( I know, weeny whine -- at least I'll have breasts when the surgery is over). Pathetic whining aside, the anxiety still exists. My husband says that I can get a tattoo there. Since he has never been amenable to a tattoo this does give me something to look forward to. I could get a tattoo. But, could I get a tattoo of perfect skin? Somehow a picture of, well, anything on my chest seems a little biker chick. That's a phase I'm not sure is on my particular path of phases.
I want to keep showing off my cleavage. I do. I am considering not letting the scar stop me. Now to get over my anxiety. After all, I still owe the world for the 'hiding my assets during their best years' thing.
May peace and confidence be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.
1 comment:
I don't know what to say other that, back in those days, I couldn't understand why you hid your beauties; and I do understand about scarring what you consider to be your best feature (although, your hair is arguably just as spectacular). My face was always my best feature, and I have worn a scar there for nearly half my life. I won't say it doesn't sadden me some, but, nevertheless, I still have a pretty face. It's just different now. One adjusts. In the meantime, it's OK to feel sad and to talk about it. I'll listen anytime. I love it when you blog.
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