Once upon a time, there lived a woman who had quite a blasé relationship with her breasts.
She never fretted about their size, after all, a small-ish B-cup is a nice balance of not too big, not too little. The shape was alright… No Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, but nothing that couldn’t be rectified with the help of a French lace, demi-cut bra. On occasion, she would give the world little sneak peeks of what existed under her décolletage… maybe a little cleavage here, some side boob there, and sometimes, on select beach vacations, she’d put the ladies right out there for everyone to see because hey, #freethenipple girlfriend (and also, tan lines are the fucking worst).
But then she got pregnant.
The breasts she so frequently overlooked became the first indication that she was growing a life inside her. They became full, and tender – those bad boys went to work. Channels and ducts came to life, prepping for their epic magic trick; in 9 months, they were going to show the world what they were made of…. milk. And not just any milk, milk that would change and morph to suit her baby’s needs – watery when it needed to quench thirst, thick when it needed to satiate hunger. These poor, little, forgotten boobs were about to reveal that they were so much more than their owner ever thought they could be.
After the birth of her child, her relationship with her boobs evolved even further.
She stepped out of the shower when her baby was 4 days old, only to discover that all the prep work those boobies were doing over the past 9 months had worked and her milk had come in. Holy shit: THOSE WERE SOME BIG BOOBS. Full, hard, and swollen. She’d seen breasts like this before… but most of them had cost a lot of money and were most commonly on display at parties and popular tourist beach destinations.
Finally, it dawned on her that these things were actually spectacular!
Capable of so much, so important, so needed, so valuable. How could anyone insult them by calling them “fun bags”, or “jugs”? And more importantly, how had society at large been convinced that they should be either objects of sexual desire – served up on a platter to be ogled by men, used to sell products, splashed across billboards OR covered up completely? At which point did we become so confused, so turned around that we suggested that women hide in bathroom stalls to nurse their babies while we “liked” instagram photos of Victoria Secret models rolling around topless in the sand. HOW DID ONE BECOME MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THE OTHER? How did one become so normal and the other so taboo?
So the little lady and her magic boobs made a steadfast decision that they would never hide behind a nursing tent.
They would never recoil into a dark corner in an attempt to make people around them more “comfortable”, because in doing so, they would do nothing to stop perpetuating the absolutely maddening paradox surrounding female breasts in our society: That as long as their purpose is to satisfy male desire, they are deemed appropriate, but if they are being used for their biological purpose, they are deemed inappropriate and should therefore be covered up.
Breasts are beautiful. Breasts are powerful. Breasts serve a most divine purpose.
AND LITERALLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET HAS THEM. So let’s just get over it, shall we?