Cleavage
When I was four I decided I would become a ballerina, started on this project right away, and at seven finally got to start lessons. By the time I was a teenager, a career in dance seemed possible. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in enthusiasm. I was disappointed that I stopped growing at a little over 5’2” tall, and in keeping with almost all dancers, I was, well, flat.
Think about it. How many dancers have you seen with lush, sexy, breasts? How often do you see a ballerina’s boobs bouncing as she leaps, lands, or does fast fancy footwork? When she spins, do you see floppy flesh whipping around as she goes? The torso is a ballet or modern dancer’s center of strength, and there isn’t much chance of developing the soft tissue that fills womanly cup sizes. When I danced, I was glad of my shape, because my “line” was not marred by big bumpy boobs.
Ballet company directors were demanding that all their dancers have long limbs and tiny heads. I was short, and my head was a normal size, so I took off my point shoes, and in bare feet, focused on modern dance. My breasts stayed small and when naked with the current love of my life, or dressed in anything but my dance clothes, I wished I could look more voluptuous.
My dance career ended abruptly at thirty when I tore my Achilles tendon during a performance. Until then I had assumed that I would beat the odds and join the few who continue to perform despite pesky aging. Life is often unfair, etc., etc., but at least, if I couldn’t dance, I expected an increase in cup size. This was not to be. I lost weight. All through my thirties, I was skinny, everywhere.
I got married in a size six dress when I was forty-one, moved into an eight around forty-five and started buying medium, sometimes large, tops somewhere between forty-five and fifty. The change in my body happened when my attention was elsewhere, and I was slow to realize that my water weight was not watery weight at all; it was solid.
But! I'd acquired full breasts. I bought a few low-cut tops that looked like low-cut tops on me, because for the first time in my life, I had cleavage. Forgive me, sisters, but I loved it when men looked at my chest instead of my face! Spandex bathing suits came on the scene, and I bought a chocolate-brown number that squeezed all the stuff I wasn’t so happy about in, and allowed a good deal of mammary to push out.
The politically incorrect pleasure I took when I garnered below chin level stares was short-lived. At fifty-one, with almost no warning, I needed open-heart surgery. They sawed through my ribs, stopped my heart and attached it to a pump, and put me on a respirator while they fixed me up. The good-looking surgeons who came to see me later deemed the operation a success. It wasn’t until I came out of the morphine-induced fog I’d been in that I realized I might have died. Just before I was discharged from the hospital, the nurse disconnected my pee tube, and I walked to the bathroom all by myself.
“Oh, God!” I cried.
“What is it, are you all right?” asked the nurse as she rushed to the open door of the tiny room.
“My cleavage!” I sobbed. Staring at me from the mirror was a scary woman who looked like she belonged in a coffin, and there was a long, thick, red, ugly scar that started below her collarbone and snaked its way down between her breasts.
For a year the scar hurt like hell, and the damn thing even developed its own bumps. And though I had forever lost the chance of dazzling with my décolletage, I still had the unwanted weight on all my body parts except my ears. They hadn’t changed.
My brother Drago, my housemate, (divorce is a whole other blog, at least) thinks I look nice, but he's too loyal for his opinion of my figure to weigh heavily with me. (If there's a pun there, it isn't intentional. I can't pun intentionally. Never could.) The scar was finally fading by 2009 when another handsome cardiac surgeon (they are probably all handsome. Dunno.) saved my life again with open-heart surgery. And on to how I look today: not fat, not thin, big boobs, goodish legs, dressed in turtlenecks. As Tony Soprano would say, "Whayagonnado?"
When I was four I decided I would become a ballerina, started on this project right away, and at seven finally got to start lessons. By the time I was a teenager, a career in dance seemed possible. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in enthusiasm. I was disappointed that I stopped growing at a little over 5’2” tall, and in keeping with almost all dancers, I was, well, flat.
Think about it. How many dancers have you seen with lush, sexy, breasts? How often do you see a ballerina’s boobs bouncing as she leaps, lands, or does fast fancy footwork? When she spins, do you see floppy flesh whipping around as she goes? The torso is a ballet or modern dancer’s center of strength, and there isn’t much chance of developing the soft tissue that fills womanly cup sizes. When I danced, I was glad of my shape, because my “line” was not marred by big bumpy boobs.
Ballet company directors were demanding that all their dancers have long limbs and tiny heads. I was short, and my head was a normal size, so I took off my point shoes, and in bare feet, focused on modern dance. My breasts stayed small and when naked with the current love of my life, or dressed in anything but my dance clothes, I wished I could look more voluptuous.
My dance career ended abruptly at thirty when I tore my Achilles tendon during a performance. Until then I had assumed that I would beat the odds and join the few who continue to perform despite pesky aging. Life is often unfair, etc., etc., but at least, if I couldn’t dance, I expected an increase in cup size. This was not to be. I lost weight. All through my thirties, I was skinny, everywhere.
I got married in a size six dress when I was forty-one, moved into an eight around forty-five and started buying medium, sometimes large, tops somewhere between forty-five and fifty. The change in my body happened when my attention was elsewhere, and I was slow to realize that my water weight was not watery weight at all; it was solid.
But! I'd acquired full breasts. I bought a few low-cut tops that looked like low-cut tops on me, because for the first time in my life, I had cleavage. Forgive me, sisters, but I loved it when men looked at my chest instead of my face! Spandex bathing suits came on the scene, and I bought a chocolate-brown number that squeezed all the stuff I wasn’t so happy about in, and allowed a good deal of mammary to push out.
The politically incorrect pleasure I took when I garnered below chin level stares was short-lived. At fifty-one, with almost no warning, I needed open-heart surgery. They sawed through my ribs, stopped my heart and attached it to a pump, and put me on a respirator while they fixed me up. The good-looking surgeons who came to see me later deemed the operation a success. It wasn’t until I came out of the morphine-induced fog I’d been in that I realized I might have died. Just before I was discharged from the hospital, the nurse disconnected my pee tube, and I walked to the bathroom all by myself.
“Oh, God!” I cried.
“What is it, are you all right?” asked the nurse as she rushed to the open door of the tiny room.
“My cleavage!” I sobbed. Staring at me from the mirror was a scary woman who looked like she belonged in a coffin, and there was a long, thick, red, ugly scar that started below her collarbone and snaked its way down between her breasts.
For a year the scar hurt like hell, and the damn thing even developed its own bumps. And though I had forever lost the chance of dazzling with my décolletage, I still had the unwanted weight on all my body parts except my ears. They hadn’t changed.
My brother Drago, my housemate, (divorce is a whole other blog, at least) thinks I look nice, but he's too loyal for his opinion of my figure to weigh heavily with me. (If there's a pun there, it isn't intentional. I can't pun intentionally. Never could.) The scar was finally fading by 2009 when another handsome cardiac surgeon (they are probably all handsome. Dunno.) saved my life again with open-heart surgery. And on to how I look today: not fat, not thin, big boobs, goodish legs, dressed in turtlenecks. As Tony Soprano would say, "Whayagonnado?"
1 comment:
You're gonna keep on keeping on, and you look maavelous, dahling. Anyone who wouldn't give you a second glance because you have a scar that represents survival ain't worth his spit, got that?
Ok then :-)
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