On matters of size

 

          When I was 16, my boyfriend at the time gave me his football jersey, (which I still have.) It was maroon and gold and sported number 22. On pep rally day I wore it to school. My boyfriend was bashful and sweet, but somehow that day things got out of hand when he and a couple of friends talked among themselves and laughed at me in the hall. I don’t remember who said what but eventually the source of their amusement came out with the joke: “22! That must be her chest size.”

            I was slim, anything but voluptuous and not confident about my body image. The words devastated me. So I did the only thing I knew how to do at the time: I didn’t speak to him for three days. And while I ignored him, I pretended to be happy, immensely happy.

            The school yearbook and local newspaper photographers were busy that week so I have a complete visual record of this time. This is my favorite ‘pretending to be happy’ photo. I’m the one on the far right. My boyfriend’s the awkward guy on the left.  

            I eventually forgave him. We went out for five years, got engaged, broke up and never saw one another again.

            He got married. I got married. I got divorced. He got divorced. Then 16 years after we broke up, we reconnected. I had moved to the opposite coast years earlier and he traveled 2,000 miles to visit me. During that visit, the subject of his ex-wife came up, including the fact she was very much the voluptuous type. It surprised me how much of a sting that was to my decades-old wound.

            We maintained a long distance relationship, traveling back and forth for two years and then we got married in our home state. He relocated and moved west. Now, my husband Ron is the sweet guy standing by my side throughout this journey. 

            I quit worrying about breast size sometime in my teens or early twenties. I can’t remember exactly. All I know is I’ve been comfortable with the way I am throughout my adult life. When I breast-fed my three children, I enjoyed temporary voluptuousness. But now, waist size concerns me more than breast size.

I have to say, though, my ears did perk up at the words my surgeon used during my first exam. “Your breasts are small.”  She said these words twice, sort of framed positively in the midst of discussing the surgery plan and reconstruction options. 

I chuckled inside, thankful to no longer be 16.