WONDER and BRAs

I woke up mad again.

After a restless night trying to find a comfortable spot away from the pain in my back, I was standing in the en-suite bathroom feeling shitty, studying myself in the mirror — well part of myself. The mirror hangs above the sink, so the view is limited.

An en-suite is basically a toilet cupboard, which includes a sink and possibly a shower stall with little room for anything else. There is no backing up to increase the view.

I turned to my husband Rick, still lying in bed, but within arms reach and said, “Look! I have BOOBS!”

There’s a scene in “13 Going on 30” where the main character is complimented on her dress by another teen in an elevator. She responds by cupping her breasts and saying something like, “Thanks! It’s because I have these great BOOBS to fill it out!”

I, in contrast, have never felt great about boobs.

For me this wasn’t good news. This meant I was retaining unwanted water, or something, causing them to swell. I mimicked the movie,  cupped the evidence in my hands in boustier fashion and turned to show him.

He chuckled. “Baby you know I love you, and I think you are beautiful. But let’s not get crazy here. You have NEVER had boobs.”

Rick has this deprecating humor and the most exquisite ability to pull me out of whatever funk I might be in. I laughed.

It’s true, though. I have never had boobs. I remember when the WONDER BRA was released on the public sometime in the late 80s/early 90s. I was so excited I was willing to SPRING for one, in spite of my limited income. I remember trying it on, looking down and thinking, “Hmmm … maybe I chose the wrong size.” I showed the sales lady, and she said, “Honey, I’m sorry, but these just aren’t going to work for you.”

So cleavage was a bust.

I came to accept — even embrace what the Wonder Bra couldn’t. I am flat chested . Or I was until recently. I learned to work it. Camisoles are my favorite, and usually the only thing I wear. But lately, I’ve noticed I’ve needed more support.

I don’t like it.

Maybe I’m going through reverse puberty, or something.

For years, I’ve treated my body fairly well and, in turn, expected certain things from it. I’ve muscled through all kinds of little aches and pains, and bumps in the road. And I've managed to maintain a fairly aggressive, active lifestyle. But lately, I’ve been sidelined by more than just my boobs.

I have a recurring injury in my back from a bad recovery and catch in swimming. It comes and goes, sometimes through over use, or maybe just the weather. I usually try to be nice to it and push through it, as I’ve done for years. Last week the pain became so bad, it literally took my breath away. I felt it for days, and tried my usual — lay off swimming; stretch it out; pop some Advil and basically ignore it.

But a few days later I took off for a run and didn’t make it half a mile, before it felt like I was being knifed in the back. I couldn’t breathe. And I panicked. I calmly walked home, but burst into tears when I got inside the door.

I feel like my body is betraying me, in a way, or maybe wondering when it will. Last night I realized I’m about the same age as my dad was when his body began to betray him. Only he didn't know it yet. He just knew something was off. He fought for years, but died at 53 from a degenerative kidney disease.

I think subconsciously I’ve been seeking signs of something similar.

It’s so much more than how I appear in the mirror. I can see lines. And I don’t care (much). It’s what I can’t see that bothers me most. 

Carpe Diem.