I have a distinct memory of childhood. I was lying flat on my back in a shallowly filled tub and I noticed that I had a puddle in my chest. It was, to my eyes, deep and I called my mother into the bathroom so she, too, could have a look at it. She assured me that when I grew up it would disappear, anticipating that my eventual breast development would somehow fill in the concave part of my chest.
She was wrong.
As I learned as an adult, when one of my sons also presented with the same anomaly, it’s actually a condition called Pectus Excavatum. We’re fortunate that it doesn’t seem to be a part of a larger physical problem, just kind of a weird thing that my child can obviously blame on me and my bad genes. Since my other two sons both had abnormalities involving their palates and uvelas, I’d say that boy should thank me for keeping it simple.
But, back to the soft tissue of my chest…
On some level, my mother was correct. Once my breasts began to grow, the cave in my chest became much less noticeable – and not just because my breasts on either side of the indentation were where eyes began to focus. including on an occasion when I was 13 or so and walking in the village where I grew up sans bra. I’ll never forget my mother pulling over in her car as she drove past, to chastise me for not wearing a bra. Talk about awkward!
Why are breasts so problematic?
Throughout my life, bras haven’t been a tremendous burden to me – other than when I’ve been shamed into wearing one by my mother, that is. They lift things up and contain what can be some jiggly flesh – plus they can be pretty. This acceptance of what can be a constraining undergarment should not be construed as a lack of issues with bras – or the societal demand that women wear them. Between the underwires and the flimsy pads designed to hide the fact the we all have nipples (and that always fold up upon themselves), I got beef. Trust me.
But, since my boobs have provided me with both attention and pleasure, and my children with sustenance, I’ve done my best to take care them with regular exams and mammograms. However, in recent years I’ve become a bit less inclined to corral them as a means of being perceived as “decent.” In fact, I’m beginning to feel as if it’s time for me to be as good to my boobs as they have been to me, which means releasing them, at times, from their captivity.
Summer, a time of extreme heat these days, feels like an ideal time to return the favor to my mammary glands by allowing them to rest comfortably in whatever strappy sundress I’m wearing. Some days this might mean a colorful bralette being on display, but other times it just might mean going commando. Either way, I simply no longer care what anyone, including my mother, have to say about it.
So, to quote Mrs. Maisel: Tits up ladies!*
*At least as far up as they are these days, that is.
DelSo 