The thing about fat chicks–the round ones and the figure
eight ones and the hourglass ones, the ones shaped like this fruit and the ones
shaped like that other fruit–is that they all have great tits. The
hourglassed ones lucked out, of course–they have the va va va voom figure
that is supposed to be okay for a fat girl to have (it’s okay to be big, if you
are big in an easily sexualized way!), but big girls have
generally lucked out in the lottery of the boobs. How could they not? Breasts
are made of fat, and we have got plenty of it. Even when they’re not large and
in charge, they are still plump and, arguably, awesomer than most boobs.
I used to have a pair of aces, with which I could sweep the
World Series of Poker. Men have always liked my body, at each of the sizes I’ve
been over the years, but overwhelmingly, they liked my breasts the best, and
they told me that, and they showed me that. With their hands and their mouths
they taught me to appreciate my body; I found, however, that it was hard for
me to appreciate some parts. But I never found it difficult to appreciate my
breasts. They showed up at 13, and I was so happy to see them. Hello, friends!
It is very nice to meet you! Friends, meet the world! World, meet my friends!
The world is so glad to know you, and has been ever since.
They made me proportionate: birthing hips balanced by a big
old rack. I felt like they drew attention away from my can, which is enormous
(thank you, big-canned women of my family, and also genetics). Anything that
drew attention away from my ass made me happy–I was so embarrassed of my butt
in high school that I would actually back
out of rooms for fear that someone would actually notice my butt. As if it
could be missed.
There was no sidling sideways out of rooms to avoid notice
of my boobs. If I could have marched around town topless, swinging sparklers,
trailed by a choir singing "Hallelujah, She’s Got Some Pair of Knockers" and
accompanied by the Funbag Band of trumpets and tambourines, well, I would have
gladly handed over my college money to secure that kind of awesomeness.
What I am saying is that I have always been fond of my
breasts. They have always afforded me a sense of normality, when I was feeling
freakishly outsized; a sense of being worth something in a physical sense when
I was feeling particularly worthless (and I know, and have always known, how
fucked up that is); and a sense of power when dealing with the breast-loving
population of the world. I had something they wanted. It is wonderful to be wanted.
I’m talking about my breasts in the past tense, as if I am
delivering a eulogy. I kind of feel like I am. Here lie my breasts. They were
boobtacular. See, the thing is, as I
might have mentioned earlier, the thing is that breasts are fat. The fact is
that I’m losing fat–104 pounds of it, so far. Much of that fat has dropped my
face and my neck (I have just the one chin!), my shoulders (hello,
collarbones!), my waist and some from my stomach (go away, stomach) and–you
saw this coming, of course–my breasts. My bras are all hooked on the last
hooks, the straps are tightened all the way, and the cups, which used to be
full and overflowing like the Horn of Plenty, are now gaping. They are still
generally firm and perky, woo hoo, but they are noticeably smaller. But any day
now, I expect to be left without breasts, holding only the bags they came in.
It used to be that I would read gastric surgery post-op
boards and see women talk about how their breasts have shrunk and how their
husbands wouldn’t love them anymore, insert smiley face or an LOL, as if being
neurotic like that was something hilarious, oh ho ho ho. Women talking about
losing their breasts and comparing it to losing their femininity and their
sexuality, and I scoffed. You don’t need breasts to be a woman, was my
scoffing. You don’t need to be so shallow, was my further scoffing. As if I had
forgotten that the breasts are the most highly sexualized part of a woman’s
body (so much so that Janet Jackson’s tit at the Superbowl sparked all that ridiculous
outrage and scandalized howling). As if
I had forgotten that my breasts have been, in a very real way, a part of my
whole body identity–not just sexually, not just as a woman, but as part of
how I see myself, as part of what is important to me to present to the world.
Did I think I was going to be the extra special gastric
bypass patient, the super beautiful snowflake of the weight loss ecosystem who
got to keep her breasts exactly as they are, cast in resin and forever
evergreen? Did I think I’d get to pick and choose where I lost the weight? That
I could say, "You know, I have never really liked my stomach. Let’s work on
that first, shall we? And then, thighs, it’s your turn! Let’s go!" I
clearly wasn’t thinking clearly, and I’m clearly not all that bright. I am
panicked at the thought of losing my breasts, as if I were Jo in Little Women–my one beauty! Certainly,
I have many other good qualities: I have an excellent personality; I’m a very good
dancer; I can only tell the one knock-knock joke, but knock knock sounds like
"knockers" and then I will burst into tears. Forget the joke telling.
There are options, too. Plastic surgery, I hear, is a
beautiful miracle of science, and as we continue to live in the future (still
without flying cars), we continue to improve upon those medical miracles, and
couldn’t the doctors sculpt me some boobs that look exactly like the real
thing, and not like halved cantaloupes? Because if I got halved cantaloupes,
I’d spend the rest of my life afraid of melon ballers and 14-year-old comic
book geeks, and that is no way to live. I’m not sure fake tits are any way to
live, either. I’ve spent mumble-teen years with my natural boobs; it feels like
a betrayal to turn my back, so to speak, on them. Though it kind of feels like
betrayal that they are going away.
There is nothing I can do about it right now. I will have to
watch them go away, and be sad and conflicted and feel strange and odd and did
I mention sad? I will have to invest in good bras, and maybe eventually, good
bras with just a little bit of padding. I will have to hope I don’t look like a
crazy, bottom-heavy Weeble now that I’ve got nothing to balance me out. I will
work on accepting it as a trade-off–the universe gets my tits, and in return
I get my health, running, smaller-sized jeans, to bend at the waist and plant
my palms flat on the floor. But I will keep being glad that Guy is an ass man.