breasts

Forty means mammogram.

I understand that feeling good is far more important than looking good. But it's hard to not get caught up in the frenzy to lose all the baby weight when that's the only thing everyone seems to comment on post-delivery.

I am a perimenopausal woman in her 40s who still feels like a 23-year-old at heart. I cannot stop the progression of time and its effects on my physical appearance, regardless of how youthful my spirit may be.

I saw my boobs as a way to get me into the secret world of feminine desirability, so I played them like they were my winning hand. I created an entire story about my sexuality that centered my breasts because they felt like the only normal — or maybe extraordinary — thing about my body. I think I hoped that I could use them to get some precious ween (obvi), but also to get MORE.

As a kid, I prayed for big boobs. Shallow, I know. But such prayers were never answered. I hardly filled an A cup.

As a curvaceous 27-year-old who developed early, I was constantly reprimanded for my selection in attire. Whether I was complimented by strangers or nagged by loved ones, one thing was made certain: my well-endowed "assets" caught both positive and negative attention, even when it was out of my control.

I got my first period when I was ten. I was at a family friend’s house. I went to the bathroom and there it was, staring back at me. Thankfully I had already been taught about ‘what to expect’ when it happened. So a short while later when we arrived home, I calmly told my mum and she showed me where she kept the pads and tampons. That was that.

It wasn’t long before boobs, cramps and hair in foreign places followed.

It would be a lie to say that I worked for a feminist porn company — it was run by a pair of sleazy men who were obviously not in it to improve the lives of women. But there were some aspects about it that were feminist.