Hot legs

All my life, my breasts have been a touchy subject (no pun intended.) When I was much younger–a mere teen with a tiny frame, I was conscious of their lack of symmetry. In reality, looking back, given the amount of attention they attracted–they were likely close to perfection. Despite frequent assurances from boyfriends and even having gathered the confidence to frolick topless in South Beach Miami, I remained convinced they were somehow flawed. To me, bigger boobs were more ‘womanly.’

In fact, I became more critical over the years and the unrealistic images of enhanced breasts presented by the media didn’t help. After my second child was born my body image hit a new low. So much that I made a trip to the plastic surgeon for an evaluation. “You look to be between a 34A and a 34B.” I nodded. “I could get you much bigger breasts. Take a look at these pics.” I slowly reviewed the picture album filled with images of women with what seemed to me to be enormous boobs. “Um, aren’t these too big for me? I’m a size 4.”

The doctor confidently assured me most women wanted to go as big as possible and often returned to replace the original implants with much larger ones. “You know what they say–the bigger the better!” 

Suddenly, I became uncertain, I mean I could handle going a little bit bigger–but I didn’t want boobs anyone would actually NOTICE. I wasn’t used to my boobs being noticed anyway, afterall I had great legs. Suddenly I wondered why I was making such a fuss about my boobs–they’d nurtured two perfect children and, because of their small size were holding up splendidly against the forces of gravity. Much better than my more endowed sisters.

Now, when I see my reflection in the mirror while undressing, I’m glad I didn’ t make a drastic decision to alter my breasts. I’ve come into my own and don’t need large breasts to define me as a woman or to declare my attractiveness. Beauty afterall, is in the eye of the beholder.

Besides I have great legs.


Green with envy

During one return visit from the US, to the small West African village, my mother was sighted using a chewing stick to clean her teeth. The next day, an ambitious teen stopped by to make a special request. He desired the “American chewing stick.” Assurances from me that the chewing stick was similar to the ones he used every morning while executing compound tidiness fell on deaf ears. Defeated I gave him one. Thus satisfied, the young man left.