Show me a woman who doesn’t have insecurities about her body and I’ll show you a fucking liar. We all have things we hate: our noses, thighs, cheekbones, hair, et cetera.
I’ve always been extremely self-conscious about my chest, or lack thereof. I can still hear the taunting from boys in junior high school.
“Sarah’s a carpenter’s dream…she’s flat as a board and she’s never been screwed.”
I hated those little prick bastards. I cried myself to sleep many a nights in those days.
I never got over it. And my chest never got any bigger. I still have the chest size of a pre-teen. I hate it. Nothing ever fits right.
It’s so hard to shop when you have a regular sized body with the chest size of a 10-year-old. Yesterday I finally took in a pile of sundresses that need to be tailored into my favorite tailor Mr. Charlie. He’s the most adorable elderly Chinese man.
As I tried the dresses on for him I could see the frustration on his face. “Why you have such little teeny boobies?”
I muttered, “Because God hates me, that’s why.”
“Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head at me. “Nothing fits you right.”
I handled the situation like the adult I am, and not the child my chest size might suggest. I held my tongue and didn’t run off in tears. Instead I looked at him and said, “We’ve all got body issues, but at least I have pretty hair.”
“Oh, yes. Such pretty hair, “ he replied.
We finished up and I left the shop with my head held high, because it draws attention to my kick ass hair and not my teeny boobies.