Sometimes I can shake it off, usually by shaking off his hands in some ingenious way. Leaning down, leaning back, switching positions, distracting him with the parts of my body that might be acceptable. Sometimes, everything stutters to a halt. Everything comes crashing down into this one fatal flaw of mine, this one particular blemish–that having small breasts should be considered a blemish is, in my rational moments, an astonishing thing. They fit my frame, my body size. They suit me. They are perky, adorable. They are perfectly reasonable. They are, in a dark place in my head, not only not good enough for me, they’re not good enough for my boyfriend no matter what he says or how he demonstrates his actual admiration, and I want to say I’m sorry.
But to feel you have to apologize–that is when things get tricky. That is the slippery slope, and that is the short trip down into hell that you need to stop yourself from ever taking. When you apologize, you are saying “I am sorry for the wrong that I did.” When you are apologizing for your body, you’re saying “I am sorry that my body is wrong.” I’m sorry my body does not match the crazy ideal that sits in the back of my head and pokes at me with sticks and tells me that I am not good enough. I am sorry that I do not meet an imaginary, completely insane standard. I’m sorry that I’m not good enough. Apologizing for your body is accepting the idea that there is a right body, and that you do not have it, and even admitting the possibility that you never will. Apologizing for your body is wrong, because that is, frankly, bullshit. Your body is not wrong.
My breasts are not wrong-sized–they’re the size breasts I have. I have entertained the idea of breast implants, to fix them, to make them correct and proper and right, but the more I think about it, the more the idea seems like a larger, expensive apology. I am not going to apologize any more. You don’t apologize when there’s nothing to apologize for.