Thelma & Louise

What the hell were we training them for?

I was the first girl in my sixth grade class to wear a bra, and I hated it. I was sure that everyone could see the straps through my clothes. My first bra had little flowers at the junction of the cups and shoulder straps; I yanked them off because they poked out the front of my shirt like two extra nipples poorly placed. My mother called it a “training” bra. What the hell were we training them for? The Mammary Olympics? The boys in my class took great pleasure in pulling the elastic back of my bra and letting it snap as they ran away laughing. As I said, I hated it.

In junior high, most of the girls had graduated from “training” bra to B, C or D cup. We kept our books close to our chest to avoid being grabbed by some adolescent sex crazed boys ( I won’t mention any names, but you all know who you are) in the hallways between classes. There was no such thing as “sexual harassment” in the 1960’s. We just tolerated it.

I’ve never quite figured out the fascination with breasts. Is it the fact that they are our first source of nourishment and comfort? Or maybe the first publicly visible sign of budding sexuality? Whatever it is, men and women alike are interested in them. Admit it, ladies, you look almost as often as men do, comparing them to your own or wondering “Are those things real?”

As an adult I started calling my girls Thelma and Louise, after the movie characters. They were looking for trouble and usually managed to find it. Every guy I met wanted to get to know them, up close and personal. They mostly went away with their hopes dashed.

I nursed my four babies sitting in an old rocking chair, loving those middle of the night moments of joyous bonding with the lives I had created. I didn’t mind the sagging, the stretch marks, or leaky nipples. This is what breasts were designed for. I didn’t care that men stopped looking so shamelessly, or that I could not go braless because I actually needed a serious system to prop them up.

I started having regular mammograms after I turned forty. I looked forward to them like having a root canal. The man who invented that machine should have to have his testicles “grammed” on a yearly basis in the same sort of device. The indignity of slapping your boob onto a tray and having it smashed in a vice is quite unpleasant. The results were always unremarkable and I took it for granted that I could not get breast cancer. After all, the common thought when I was a young mother was that you had very little chance of getting breast cancer if you nursed your children. I had that covered. I thought I was safe.