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Abreast of It All


Pablo Heimplatz, Unsplash

A few weeks back there was a whole flurry of kerfuffle around the Victoria’s Secret reaction thing where a bunch of body positive activists showed up to a London store calling themselves “fallen angels” and talking about unrealistic beauty standards. There was a reaction article that several folks I know posted (this one: https://thelibertarianrepublic.com/the-body-positivity-movement-victoria-secret-models-sexy/?fbclid=IwAR1Fj8nR5ZHdXaderxJWmow42kgyRS8IA-sxvfhYvGsr7vJqhc9QIDO754I) titled “No One Is Obligated to Find You Sexy.”

The article wasn’t quite as ugly as the title implies but I’ve been chewing on a few things about that whole conversation over the past few weeks as the absolute deluge of holiday ads has washed over me, many of them for bras and lingerie – why these ads? No clue. I buy NO ONE lingerie for the holidays. I barely buy MYSELF lingerie. But I digress…

While I am a believer in body positivity – being who you are in the skin you have and loving that person – I don’t think I’ve ever gone so far as to EXPECT that I be declared sexy. That’s ridiculous. People like what they like, I do think that if we, as a culture, state that one thing and ONLY one thing is allowed to be declared sexy that’s a problem. Don’t yuck on my yum, you know? I have a right to be considered sexy, no one needs to be shamed because they find me sexy or don’t find me sexy. Like what you like, get turned on by what you get turned on by. Period.

BUT (and you knew there was going to be one) I do have an issue that is tied to body positivity, lingerie stores, and my rights as a woman with a body I’m walking around in.

My fucking bra size DOES EXIST. And only, like, two companies that make bras actually acknowledge that. And I’m not alone in this, it’s not just a “big girl” or a “skinny girl” thing. Diversity IS and if you’re not going to believe in my size, I’m going to judge your company. Oh, your company doesn’t have to find me sexy, but you damned well better carry my size if you’re going to market to me and try to make me believe that you DO find me sexy which, honestly, we all know you don’t – it’s fine – I just want comfortable bras that don’t look like medical equipment.

I’m looking at you, ThirdLove. And Wacoal. And, sure, Victoria’s Secret – although, to be fair, they don’t believe ANY women over DD exist so my dismissal of them as a reality in my life is LONG-past.

I wouldn’t be angry about this if these companies didn’t make it seem like they DO cater to ALL sizes and shapes. They do not. Ask the chick who is a 36HH. And I DO exist. I’m right here, trying to make the one decent-looking style from the one company that made a bra in my size for one season last the rest of my fucking life.

Which has nothing to do with being sexy and everything to do with somehow feeling like I’m being told I can’t possibly exist.

I’ve talked to other women with quirky sizes, most often we have a narrower torso with a large cup-size, and it doesn’t matter if we’re thick or thin, we all feel aggravated because we aren’t actually unicorns. There are a lot of us.

Here’s what gets me most: whether I think about it explicitly every day or not, there’s something about knowing that society as a whole appears unable to function if my large breasts are allowed to swing free (some day maybe I will take on the issue of why a small-breasted woman is fine sans bra but a large-breasted woman sans bra is going to bring Western society as we know it to a screeching halt because her boobs jiggle or her nipple is in evidence, but that day is not today) thus I’m actually obligated to wear a bra every time I leave the house BUT I also literally CANNOT wear a bra without finding a Sherpa, climbing a secret mountain, and finding the ONE monastery that believes in my bra size and thus makes it, then paying at least twice what the average person does for a bra that will likely still not fit well and will fall apart just as fast as cheap bras. Oh, and it will definitely be ugly. This tells me, subtly but without a doubt, that I’m not a real person. It tells me that I’m wrong, I’m other, I’m not part of the group that makes up successful life.

And, sure, I am entirely capable of turning that narrative on its head and claiming my mega-mammaries as a statement of owning my other. Of course I can. The cost of admission to that choice is not getting as many professional opportunities, not having as many social doors open to me, choosing to BE other – not because of an intellectual or chosen reality – but because of the breasts my genetic make-up declared would be mine before I was even born, before I had a say. That’s an ask, y’all. It really is. Right up there with having doors closed based on your weight, your skin color, your hair texture, your genitals, your sexuality.

So, no, I don’t need you to find me sexy. I just need to have the right to exist. MY BOOBS EXIST. Trust me, I see them every day.

© Regan Wann 2019

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