The Eye of the Beholder

On celebrating our imperfections

At first glance, or recoil, this might appear to be a story about tits. Well, it is and it isn’t. Let me explain.

My nephew Ryan is to be wed this Saturday and I am both looking forward to the affair and viewing it with some trepidation. Me, plus an open bar all night can go down like a shot of M’Lord’s. Not smooth. And as a result, not pretty.

Like everyone else, after the past year and a half, I need to get my ya-yas out, but without heaping a shit ton of embarrassment on my husband, my sister, and her family. Not to mention, myself, as I’m well-versed in that. I can self-flagellate with the best of them. But that said, I am determined to enjoy myself within reasonable limits.

As I wrote in a previous story, it took me some time to find a dress for the upcoming nuptials. Because when a particular style is “trending,” you’re going to see it damn near everywhere whether you like it or not. I believe many women here will relate to this. It’s difficult AF to find a garment that not only makes us look good and feel good about ourselves, but is also comfortable.

Underwire bras, I’m lookin’ at you. Bastards.

Finally, out of desperation, I turned to Amazon and after scrolling through so many “dressy dresses” that my recurring vertigo flared up, I found two that I thought would make the grade. Plus, if they didn’t suit me, which I fully expected, I’d have time to return them and go back on the prowl.

One of the frocks I chose is black with a splashy floral print, short sleeves, a deep V-neck, and a slit up the front — nothing too high as I don’t want to flash the frat boys at the wedding. (Or, fuck it. Maybe I do.) The style is somewhat “vintage,” which I like as I, myself am somewhat vintage.

The other dress is more “gown-like.” Peach and sleeveless with a high neck, empire waist, and a long skirt. Simple, but elegant.

I tried them both on and modeled for my husband. The peach dress was a no-go. I looked like I’d been swallowed up by a sack, albeit one of a lovely hue.

Thankfully, the black floral number was a big hit. I was ecstatic that I didn’t have to shop any further, but was concerned about the neckline. A deep-V can be very sexy IF you have the “girls” to carry them off.

I do not. Never have I been well-endowed and I don’t expect that to change in the foreseeable future. Six years ago, when I lost a considerable amount of post-menopausal weight, my face and my perky titties were the first of my body parts to shrink.

Being that they were “just boobs,” that was fine by me, and even with the weight loss, they still retained their shape. As for my nipples — I’ve always appreciated them. That’s all I’m going to say.

Before I could pat myself on the back for slimming down and getting into the best shape of my life, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Holy lumpectomy! My surgeon told me beforehand that I would “lose volume” in the affected breast, the one on the right. He gave me the option of inserting an implant during the surgery but I decided against it. At the time, I just didn’t see the point, and aside from my surgeon’s assurance that a cosmetic implant wouldn’t affect the outcome of future scans, I declined. Too, nearly every decision I made was fear-based. I couldn’t think straight. Cancer will do that to you.

Well, the dude wasn’t kidding. I “lost volume,” alright. You can see for yourself in the image up top.

If you can stand to look.

After surgery and the resulting four weeks of radiation, my poor girl shriveled up beyond recognition. Plus, in the six years hence, she seems to be migrating “uphill.” I’m hoping that has ended because if not, I’m going to end up with a tit in my mouth.

Oh, the little “pooch” under my arm? That was a bonus.

And then there’s the scar. That jagged little “grin” just above the spot where the tumor was cut out. Sometimes I imagine it’s alternately smiling at, and mocking, me.

But, I don’t care. I’m alive and grateful, no matter the state of my titsicles. Yet, there is the issue of clothes. And, filling them out where appropriate.

Since my job loss, followed by Covid and the long stretch in quarantine, I haven’t been wearing a bra. I friggin’ hate them and always have. But when I do wear one, I like a little extra “oomph,” you know?

Along with this new dress, I realized I’d need a new bra that would accommodate the plunging neckline and give me something other women enjoy without thinking about it: Cleavage.

And we care about this, why? Men, care to chime in?

I’m guessing you ladies with super-sized boobs and the accompanying backaches would disagree about the cleavage thing. That’s human nature, for you, right? So many of us want what we don’t, or can’t, have. With that said, surviving breast cancer has cured me of that.

For the most part. I’d still like some cleavage.

I found a bra, or “bralette” as it’s called with a deep V and some padding. Nothing outrageous. And no fucking underwire.

Because this is my beloved’s sister’s son’s wedding, I decided to go the extra mile and give myself a little somethin’ somethin’ extra, like silicone inserts for the bralette. I’ve never used them before, but I’m hoping they’ll help to even me out, tits-wise.

All of this hoopla for one night started me thinking about how hard we are on ourselves. We women, especially. There’s an amazing amount of time and work devoted to fending off the inevitable.

Hey, I’m not knocking the quest for self-improvement. I want to look as good as I can for as long as I can. I want to feel sexy and vibrant and good in my skin. But, I want to loosen up, too. Don’t you?

Maybe work on the internal, more? Get grounded and centered and all that crap?

Don’t you want to stop fretting about your too big ass and your too small lips? Or the few pounds of Pandemic Pudge that accumulated over this past shit show of a year? Or your thinning hair and post-baby stretch marks? Or any number of things that don’t conform to our ludicrous standards of beauty?

Like having a disfigured boob, or no boob at all?

I know I do. That’s the reason I posted such a personal image. A reminder that sometimes, the shit is out of our control. Believe me when I say I never imagined doing such a thing. Ever. Because I have my little vanities, like many people, but ever since I joined Medium, three years ago, I’ve become more comfortable with revealing myself.

Perhaps that makes you uncomfortable. I hope not.

For a while, after the surgery, I never took a good look at myself in the mirror. I was afraid to because if I did, the reality of having had cancer would have been too difficult to contemplate. I had also just lost both my parents to Stage 4 lung cancer. So I was in full-on avoidance mode. Can you understand this?

But, as time passed and I became more at ease with “things,” I came to the realization that my scarred breast was a flaw that should be embraced. A “perfect imperfection” as I like to think of it. A reminder that life is too precious to fret over the stuff we can’t change.

Tomorrow morning, I won’t wake up twenty years younger with a tighter ass and two unsullied tits. And I need to be good with that.

We all have flaws, warts, imperfections. There’s not a soul here who doesn’t. And as we live in a society that extolls the external, our flaws are magnetized to ridiculous degrees. But perhaps we should view them differently. Take an honest assessment and make changes where we can, because self-confidence is a good thing, and then, try to embrace the ones that will be with us, until we’re dust. Like my disfigured boob. I may not love the way it looks, but I’ve come to accept that it’s part of what makes me, “me.”

Just as your flaws, or what you perceive to be flawed, is integral to who you are.

When I work out, I can feel the hard knot of scar tissue that formed in the cavity where the tumor was and it reminds me, with every squat and lunge and tricep dip, that I’m still here. I may be a little crusty on the inside but, on the outside, what I see, I’m kind of liking. I’m working on it, anyway.

Saturday, I’ll put on my new bra with the silicone titty inserts, my new dress, some bling, and naturally, a bold, red lip and I’ll celebrate my nephew’s marriage.

Then I’ll come home, take it all off, look in the mirror and say,

“Goodnight, scar.”

I want to thank Remington Write for inspiring me to broaden my horizons by shooting my own imagery. This may not be what she had in mind, but it’s a start.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s soon-to-be-ex-manager is currently NOT pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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