I have finally found and understood my purpose in life. Most people never get that and yet, I have. And I’m just a pair of boobs.
B@@bies. Jugs. Fun Bags. Hooters. Tits. Ta-tas. Knockers. Rack. Bazongas. I’ve got a lot of names, a lot of incarnations, and a whole lot of varieties. Breasts, no matter what you call me, pretty much every woman has me front and at least sort of center on her chest. Perky, droopy, apples, melons, socks with rocks, long, full, short, floppy and everything in between, I’ve been bouncing along for as long as humans have traipsed around this planet. Which is a long time. But every woman has to figure out what to do with me at one point or another and it isn’t always easy. It has been vogue at various times of history to leave me free and unfettered under clothing, to push me up and out, to bind me tight and flat, to pierce me, paint me, hide me and flaunt me. In some cultures I’m always out and open, others I’m so revered I’m covered yet a peek is desperately sought so much so there are men that will even pay money for it.
Before they have their own pair, every little girl at least notices that the adult version of herself has some sort of extra padding on her chest, something her male counterparts do not have. These chest pillows are fascinating and in today’s western cultures a bit of an obsession. As little girls grow they start experimenting with what they’d look like with soft round growths on their chest. I am the mark of woman. Not alone in that responsibility, I share the distinction of being uniquely feminine with the female pelvis and vagina. With the exception of man-boobs. But for everyone’s comfort, we’ll pretend those don’t exist, anywhere. Ever. Before I begin to develop on immature females, they play that I am there just because it is synonymous with playing a grown-up.
Then they sprout their own pair, slowly or quickly breasts eventually appear. Confusing feelings mingle with my advent on a changing girl’s chest. Pride and excitement about becoming a woman collide with embarrassment and a desire to stay a care-free child. Eventually she learns that in western cultures breasts equal a certain kind of power, one she may not be comfortable wielding or one that is wielded against her. Her breasts may feel like a burden regardless of their size or like a defining part of her personhood that she can use to her advantage.
As for me, I was just an average pair of smallish boobs, situated on a small framed woman that often wished I was bigger. To make matters worse, one of my nipples was a split nipple, malformed and strange looking. Her dissatisfaction with my size and shape led to uncomfortable bras to pad me out and push me up and I endured criticism every time she looked at me in a mirror. No matter what I did, what I wore or how I participated in lovemaking, fashion and life she was unhappy with me. She never knew what to do with me and I never knew what to do with myself. I was inadequate.
Until one day. There had been change, I had grown recently but she still wasn’t satisfied, now I managed to be too big or too… something. No matter what I wasn’t good enough. My bigger size included painful growing and she was distracted by other physical changes that were apparently far more important than me, the neglected, the unloved ones. That is until that day. The uterus and vagina, in one of their greatest moments of achievement produced a baby. As the placenta left the uterus I got a signal, one that changed me forever: feed baby now. I had already been producing a golden yellow liquid for which I saw no purpose and caused her even further disgust in me but when that baby came out and was placed on the belly, I knew. Arms drew this small person close and the baby’s mouth immediately began searching for something: me.
In no time it became clear that I was this baby’s favorite thing in the world. Every chance she got she latched on to me. She loved me. She didn’t care if I was perky or sagging, smooth skinned or flecked with red stretch marks, if I had large or tiny nipples, or even that one nipple wasn’t quite right. She had a special sign for me, and that was the first sign she ever used. It took us some time, the 2 or really 3 of us, but it was really just getting used to each other and figuring out how this works. There were some rough moments, a few tears and frustrated words but we got it, we worked it out. We had to. Because this was what we were made for.
Now I have a position of respect and I am celebrated. Five babies now have been nourished by me, have searched for me in their sleep, patted me as they suckled and asked for me by their special name. I have comforted a small one hundreds of times over when nothing else would do. Through me has flowed the healing power of sweet milk custom made for the baby whose mouth opened expectantly. Small cheeks have rested on me in slumber after I have satiated their hunger and their need to be warm and close. When I am seen in the mirror I am viewed sometimes critically but always with appreciation and I am treated tenderly. My purpose is clear, everything else I do is nice and I enjoy a full and active life but nothing has fulfilled me as much as feeding a baby.
Some day this job will be done and I will no longer feed babies. I am ok with this; for when one finds and understands their purpose and the time in which it is served, one can accept when that time is over, satisfied in having discovered and served a purpose at all. Knowing that I was more than an inadequate pair of fun bags and meant the world to 5 little girls is enough for me.
Not every pair of breasts will find their purpose the same way I did but I hope more and more do. It doesn’t matter what you call me, what I’m dressed in, what society says I’m supposed to look like or what my role is, I’m happy. I have been appreciated, loved and enjoyed for who I really am.
P.S. I love this video.