EQUALITY | FEMINISM

Thanks for the Mammaries of Low Self-Esteem; the Day the Trash Men Drooled Over Breasts

Had these grown men never seen them before?

We were getting married, and everything was light and free.

When he told me that he used to be a boob man, but it looked like he would now be a leg man instead, we laughed.

I laughed. I really did.

I laughed for all the wrong reasons.

Inside, I cried.

My insecurities about my body, specifically my breasts, had been stuffed down for years.

Being mistaken for a boy for the first 14 years of my life only started to bother me as my awareness of differences in other girls surfaced.

My friends had boobs, and some were well-endowed.

My development was right in line with my frame. I was given ample but athletic breasts that fit me.

I wanted more.

A female was defined, assessed, and valued, based on her woman-like physique.

At an early age, my brother and I giggled over the centerfolds from the hidden Playboy Magazines. Unwittingly, a message was received and a standard of beauty was imprinted on my brain, as well as his.

I longed to be stunning like those models. Society deemed them perfect women and I agreed.

My adolescent mind wanted to be feminine and petite with pretty hair and an hourglass figure. My hips were narrow and my breasts were not that noticeable. An hourglass figure was not mine.

I resigned myself early in life that I would never be described as voluptuous.

Playboy would not be calling me.

I was well aware and hyper-critical of my body as a result. Every girl looked better than me. Going to the beach, to have my noticeable lack of cleavage, mortified me. My boobs fell more to my armpits when I lay flat.

When reclined, the models’ breasts were still in front of them.

Playboy centerfolds had smooth, round, full breasts. Their nipples pointed in the same direction, up. They were centered and properly located to provide cleavage which could hold onto a locket necklace.

I believe I had side boobs before it became a thing. No label existed way back when. It certainly wasn’t on the radar as sexy.

I tucked my poor body image deep inside. My personality became my cover. I could shine and blind everyone with humor and keep them from noticing my inadequacy. I didn’t want my body evaluated.

And yet, I would bring attention to my breasts before someone else could.

In hopes that I wouldn’t be laughed at, I chose to self-deprecate in humor so everyone could see how okay I was with myself.

I wasn’t.

All these years later, I doubt I will ever embrace my body, flawed or not per society. I marvel at the degree of confidence many women possess.

Married for more than 10 years and several homes later, I asked my ‘leg man’ of a husband if we could get rid of his Playboy Magazine collection. They didn’t bother me as much as my concern for our daughters.

I didn’t want them to discover the centerfolds. They deserved to properly understand the value of a woman.

It pained me to think I (we) may be responsible for continuing or perpetuating low self-esteem.

It was time to break the cycle.

Women are more than their breasts.

My daughters and my son will be better for knowing that simple fact.

The collection contained hundreds of Playmates and the monthly subscription had finally been canceled.

The tug-o-war wasn’t too long before an understanding was reached. Putting aside pleasures from the past was in the best interest of our children and their futures.

We took advantage of an empty house on a school day.

While they weren’t home, we schlepped box after box of the old magazines down to the curb for the recycles to be picked up.

Our cul-de-sac contained a small island in the center, complete with a large tree and surrounding bushes.

The trash truck came into the round-about. As the crew hefted the boxes into the back, I felt satisfied and clean.

Maybe the door to my past angst would close. I would no longer have to look at the perfectly air-brushed women and could put away my self-worth yardstick that never should have existed.

Roughly an hour later, I caught a glimpse of the truck through the front window. It had relocated to the other side of the island and was partially hidden.

I walked down to the end of the driveway to see the truck turned off and parked. The driver and crew were sitting on the ground and quite comfortable in the shade.

Emptied Gatorade bottles were strewn about.

No less than 50 magazines were fanned out on the pavement, in the grass, or in their hands.

These men were grown.

Had they never seen breasts before?

Just take the boxes home if you want.

Feeling belittled, yet again, I mumbled an apology for stopping their work schedule. I think I laughed and acted like it was okay. And then, I meekly turned on my heel and went back inside.

Why am I embarrassed?

Women were objectified and I am a woman.

I didn’t want to be compared to perfection.

Exposed and vulnerable.

People complained to the town about the delay in their pick up.

Embarrassment prevented me from revealing what I had witnessed. I refused responsibility for their actions, though, because that was their shortcoming.

Not mine.

Now, here I am, at 57 years old.

Playboy shut down the magazine. I left my temporary leg man, who went back to being a breast man, and I still question my imperfections.

More important than my emotional growth, however, was my parental responsibility. Teaching equality starts at home.

My kids are confident, strong, and valued.

And, for all the right reasons.

Women are more than their breasts.

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