June 6, 2017 – This blog, as well as being inspired by my own love/hate relationship with my bosoms, also came about by three somewhat simultaneous events which made me look at my breasts, and my body, in a new way.
The first was becoming – after some 18 months – injury free. I’d put on weight as I couldn’t exercise properly. The plus side of it for me was I figured I’d lose weight from my boobs. But that didn’t happen. I lost back fat and chest fat, but my cup size did not reduce. FF stands for friggin frustrated.
At the same time my oldest friend (we’ve known each other since before we were born because our parents smoked pot, I mean, went to uni together), Bridget Mayne, had a mastectomy (and she’s still waiting for the reconstruction). Had she not had the mammogram when she did – at her former nurse mum Judy’s nagging – she’d be dead now. By the way – Bridget had NO symptoms including NO feelable lump. Bridget had great breasts. Now she has one, but she is alive. And in a way that is so Bridget, is threatening me with the perky, gravity-defying perfection she will enjoy when she has surgery.
Then, by chance, a male tennis buddy let it slip that club member Bob (not his real name) was “obsessed with my tits” and “everyone knows about it”. Now, I never used to like the ‘t’ word, but as a writer who endeavours to avoid repetition, and as it was the word by friend used, I will too. The truth came out – just about every time Bob saw my friend he shared his pathetic fantasies of my mammary glands with which ever male would listen. He can’t wait to see my boobies wet (that would explain why he asked me swimming, and why I avoid the pool area at the gym during weekday times the old pervert can use his bus pass). He’s desperate to see me in a bikini (well, he might get his wish if he finds out about this website).
Anyway, I’m going to interview Bob in a few weeks and ask him why he thinks it’s acceptable to make comments to people about my breasts, and I think he’ll agree to speak on the record. Watch this space.