Fortress Security, Granny Sexuality.
M and I just got back from a beautiful vacation - our first trip without the girls. Packing for the trip brought up old memories and even older lingerie. I was revisiting an earlier version of myself - the woman before I became the mother. When was the last time I gave myself permission to dress impractically or present alluringly? When was the last time I leaned into my sexuality? [Insert CRICKETS]
I’m not sure I’ve ever truly felt sexy. From the moment I hit puberty my body felt like something to fix. Even our family physician shook his head at my blossoming bosom. He advised us to start documenting back pain so insurance would pay for the seemingly inevitable breast reduction. I was 16.
My mom did her best to counter this fear-based approach by investing (literally) in my confidence. To her credit, she understood the value of well-fitted clothing. So from the ages of 15-25 nearly everything I wore was professionally altered - including my bras. We went to department stores and selected bras with the largest cups, regardless of band size. Then we lay them at the feet of our seamstress/goddess, and prayed for miracles. She took the bands down to my measly 30 inches and added elastic for longevity. This process distributed my bust across and around my ribcage, effectively widening my circumference and hiding any semblance of a waist. The end result was fortress level security with granny level sexuality (see photo).
Fast forward a few years. The first person who broke through the fortress uncovered a landmine. A lump in my left breast. Obviously this was terrifying, but benign breast tumors run along my maternal line, and this lump was no different. I chose to have it surgically removed, and walked away with a small (though noticeable) scar. That same year I found myself on a competitive dance team with racy costumes. I grabbed the largest available corset, but even after alterations, there was a fair bit of spillover. One of my male teammates playfully pointed to the scar teasing, “Aha, that’s how they got so huge!”. “Nope,” I responded, “that was a cancer scare.” He was a good friend, and he apologized immediately, but the effect lingered. I felt gross, awkward, and broken.
Conditions had improved by the time I met M. For one thing, the scar on my breast faded. But even more importantly, I discovered bras built for my dimensions! Remember the years before social media, where you had to see something IRL to know it existed? Well, I had never met anyone (besides my mom) with similar dimensions, so I never imagined that there were enough of us to warrant off-the-rack bras in my size. Infact, I never knew my actual size. Apparently I was a 30GG, and I could choose from multiple beautiful options! I know this sounds cheesy, but seeing myself in cute colorful bras was a big deal (no pun intended). My chest wasn’t an obstacle or anomaly, and suddenly I had a waist! As you might imagine, all my tops fit better, as did my confidence. But I was already 25; I had solidified a body image based on all that came before.
To this day, touching my breasts brings waves of anxiety. I worry about what I might discover. Breastfeeding served as a form of exposure therapy. After ignoring my breasts for years, I had to massage them from all angles to extract milk. I can see them now as vestiges of a life-sustaining maternal bond. And they were serving in that capacity until 5 months ago… which brings us to my recent vacation.
When was the last time I gave myself permission to dress impractically or present alluringly? When was the last time I leaned into my sexuality? Certainly not while I was pregnant or breastfeeding. Bearing children has helped me feel self-assured and proud of my body, but caring for children is inherently unsexy. So this trip was genuinely the first time I had both the confidence and freedom to explore my sexual allure. The result? Colorful bralettes, crop tops, and the glow of owning each and every curve.
