Upfront
The first time I became aware of my boobs was when I went walking with my friend’s parents. I was horrified aged eight when my friend Lorraine stripped to the waist and marched through the park with utter indifference to my mortification. As a later indication of my prudishness, I struck up a painful pros and cons conversation with her mum and dad about why I should leave my top on. They were amused and exasperated all at once – I was adamant that my très bien T-shirt would remain faithfully in place and relieved that my moral alignment had once again been restored.
It’s not that I wasn’t familiar with boobs. As a small Catholic child I saw Jesus’s boobs every day and sometimes my mother’s, admittedly when her cleverly concealing face cloth slipped during bath time. Thankfully they weren’t hairy like my dad’s, but sort of eager and buoyant with a will of their own – prompting both accelerated fear and excitement in equal measure. Ours was a prominently female household and growing up with Mum and my two sisters meant that tits and bits were unavoidable (I sigh on behalf of Dad). I remember my big sis Kel getting her first job on the underwear stall at the local indoor market and eyeballing (albeit lids half cast) the exotic paraphernalia she brought home at discount price. I didn’t waste any time trying it all on in her absence. Claire, my fellow conspirator and youngest sister, once mistook a pair of crotchless pants as a bra, with the open crotch comfortably slipping over her petit head as her arms flapped about trying to find an outlet either side. As quickly as her naivety had betrayed her, she literally sprung one spring, leaving me and my inverted nipples firmly behind.
As my first day of secondary school approached, I bought myself a new alice band to coordinate with my new uniform and a set of new vests – yes, you heard me correctly. Upon reaching that momentous day I learned quickly that boobs were tits and tits meant only one thing – bras! The protruding bow that hung over my blouse served only to expose my still child-like body, and having received what can only be described as a wedgie of the upper carriage from a boy in the fourth year, I was sent into a blind frigid panic. You could call it a life-changing day, not least because it was to be another seven years before I went bra-less again. Not one, you understand, but two, worn one on top of the other, padded and intricately scaffolded to give the illusion of normality and inclusiveness. The indescribable physical discomfort I felt was akin to wearing a toddler’s harness with egg boxes attached – but to endure the pain of going without would have been a far greater punishment within my adolescent mind.
As Mother Nature would have it, I had to wait until my sweet sixteenth before puberty lazily stirred within. The fact that the one (OK, two) things I had wanted so desperately to arrive hadn’t, was in itself a reason for martyrdom. On top of it, I had a shnozz that apparently knew no bounds, protruding from my face to give me an air of haughty assertion that betrayed the still shy girl within. My respite came in the form of ballet, where boobs weren’t needed but body strength and determination were. My 183 cm body began gradually to unfold itself, and for the first time I felt good about my tits as they clung safely, nestled within the pre-moulded bosom of my spandex leotard. Alert, pert, proud and nipply – yes nipply! My body was responsive – or perhaps I was beginning to respond to it. Oh how malleable and ‘on demand’ they were. I began to tweak and play with them at regular intervals – they were having a regular coming-out party of their own and continue to be upstanding!
To cut a long story short, my boobs have proved to be a source of enormous discussion over the years. It’s true to say that as a teenager I thought about getting ‘them done’, but thank God I was broke as it meant that I sat quite literally with the problem. I remember early on in my modelling career, a hairdresser in LA advised me to get my nose reduced and to expand my bosoms. Now, I’m NOT infallible to my own self-criticism; however, something wonderful happened in response. I realised I had punished my lovely, hard-working, healthy body for years with feelings of inadequacy and ‘not quite right’ syndrome – how dare someone else tell me what’s wrong with me!? In that moment my stubbornness took over and with almighty gusto I told the bozo in question to do one. He was aghast and ignorant to my new-found conviction and I began to protect my body, just as it was, with all my might.
In general both men and women have intervened, offering me constant solutions to my body issues – not mine, theirs – because it seems that even if I accept my body it doesn’t necessarily mean other people do. Some ask, with genuine concern, if I will be ‘relieved to get a boob job once my modelling career is over’? I am always astonished by this question because to me it brings into question my womanhood, as if by not fixing the problem I am somehow incomplete. I can assure you that I am all woman, in attitude as well as physical attribute. I revel in my femininity so how could I betray that by succumbing to a social stigma of what’s considered right and wrong, socially acceptable, even? I have collected a couple of amusing anecdotes over the years to satisfy the reader’s appetite: How will you breastfeed? Did you have them removed? It’s a humbling thing to put aside someone else’s ignorance in order to stay sane. One journalist, a woman, splashed my tits over a double-paged spread in a tabloid newspaper, seemingly indignant that I had chosen to wear a revealing dress. Her response? Contrived references such as ‘part-time ironing board’, etc. My point is, SHE wasn’t comfortable with my body, therefore I was punished and subjected to public humiliation.
As a prerequisite to accepting my body/boobs just as they are, it has given me enormous empathy and respect for all other women. Our boobs are precious, gentle and sensitive but also proud, happy and upstanding in a very powerful, responsive way. I’m all for variety in tit/tittage of all different shapes and sizes – heck I have fondled my sisters’ (of blood and friend variety) enough over the years, and they mine in equal appreciation!
Garnering both positive and negative descriptions of my body over the years has, at times left me feeling very uncomfortable – I have worked hard to be kind to myself and quit judging. After all, my tits have served me well – they work, they satisfy and I am eternally grateful to be healthy. Why shouldn’t I be upfront about them?
PS I haven’t worn a bra in 15 years!