Stopping Boys in Their Tracks

We all have a tendency of taking things for granted at times, our husbands, wives, jobs, homes, health, time, and best friends.  It is not always a bad thing according to Dr. Joyce Brothers, American psychologist and author.  “Being taken for granted can be a compliment. It means that you’ve become a comfortable, trusted element in another person’s life.”  However, it becomes pretty scary when you wake up one morning and realize that trusted element, the thing you have taken for granted over the years, is not going to be there for you anymore.  That can be rather devastating.  Of course, I am talking about my breast right now although I could easily be talking about a husband or a friend.  In a few days it will be gone.  Cut off from my body, poked and tested and thrown out with other body parts in the hospital incinerator.

My breasts have been with me since I can remember.  First, they were just two simple circular markings on my chest, no different than my brothers.  A time when going topless was sweet and innocent.   Then as I grew, they grew too, becoming round, soft and stopping boys in their tracks.  I was not quite ready for this role however, so I would wear a T-shirt under my school uniform blouse so no one could see that I was wearing a training bra.  Why do they call it a training bra by the way?  Training for what?

When I was in the sixth grade, I was one of the first girls to develop perky little breasts.  I became the recipient of innocent and not so innocent teasing from my girlfriends.  They would say, “Meeks shake your peaks.”  Meeks is my maiden name.  They were just jealous that I could shake them and they couldn’t.  As I grew into my bra and my new found role of stopping boys in their tracks, some of these same girlfriends and I would put grapefruits in our bras and jog down Central Avenue drawing many honks from passerby.

A few years later, after relentless role testing of stopping boys in their tracks, I read an article in “17 Magazine” entitled, “Do you have large Breast?  Take the test?”  The test consisted of placing a pencil under your breast, if it stays put, your breast are large.  Well, I passed the pencil test with flying colors.  I decided to up the ante and go for a banana.  Yes, I passed that too.

Upon graduation from college, my girlfriends and I backpacked across Europe.  We found ourselves on the beach in the south of France where topless women stormed the beaches like D-Day, sunbathing, swimming, walking and playing paddle board.  These women were young, old, thin, not so thin, natural (before silicone), beautiful and real.  Unfortunately, I was too modest back then to partake.  A few years later in Mexico, becoming a bit overconfident in my role of stopping boys in their tracks, I decided to throw caution to the wind and let freedom reign.  Well, Mexico is not France.  There were mostly vacationing Americans and locals on the beach selling silver jewelry, freshly made tamales and “chiclet”.  Well, you can imagine the stir I caused.

Americans have such a fascination with breasts.  We call them by many different names, boobs, jugs, knockers, hooters.  We wonder if they are fake or real or too big or too small.  We spend millions of dollars every year surgically enhancing them.  We buy low cut blouses, push up bras, adorn them with jewelry and tattoos and do special exercises to lyrical songs. Remember this one ladies, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust,” as we pump our arms back and forth in hopes of increasing our cup size from an A to a D.  There is no denying that breasts are an American pastime and I would even venture to say, Americans are obsessed.

As obsessed as we may be, most of us recognize that there is another side to breasts, a natural inherent beauty symbolizing femininity, fertility, nurturing, sustenance, tenderness, and love.  They give pleasure and receive pleasure, orbs of pure bliss and delight.  They add beauty to the world and embody nurturing and motherhood.  A woman’s breasts represent the uniqueness in each and every one of us and they are to be celebrated.  Whether beautiful and sexy, alluring and charming, soft and supple, dynamic and vivacious, quiet and stoic, large and loud, small and timid, notable and famous, they are nature’s gift to men, women and last but not least, babies.

Babies!  My breast took on an entirely new meaning when I brought my first child into this world.  They became a life source, a natural spring, generously giving sustenance and nourishment to Riley, Casey and Maggie.  I will never forget the feeling of breastfeeding, giving love and life from my own body, absolutely miraculous.  It should be considered one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World.  I will also never forget the size of my breasts.  Honestly, my boobies were bigger than my baby’s heads.  No kidding!  I was afraid I might suffocate the poor things.

My breasts have accompanied me through the many changes and stages of my life.  As they have grown, developed, changed and matured, I have too.   They are a part of who I am and I am deeply grateful for them.  We have shared so much together, the girls and me.

So, I dedicate this post to breasts; to my breasts, to your breasts, to all breasts and the women that own them!  I will no longer take these miraculous wonders for granted.  In fact, there are a lot of things and people I will no longer take for granted.  My appreciation runs very deep, so deep that no amount of cutting can take them away.  They can cut my glandular tissue, fat, lymph nodes and nipple from my body but they cannot strip me from my memories, my femininity, my beauty and my ability to still stop boys in their tracks.

Deanne and Raundi, New Years Eve

My girlfriend Raundi has turned breasts into poetry.  She is talented beyond belief and her beauty radiates to everyone she touches.  She wrote this poem especially for this blog.  She offers creative writing and poetry workshops and can be reached at Raundimoorekondo@gmail.com.

The Hills Are Alive

By Raundi K. Moore-Kondo

There are hills. And then, there are HILLS.

Sometimes, it is a mountain climb,

but there is always an exquisite pink climax,

and a lofty downside.

Equal and equitable. Part joy and part grief. Opposite and attractive.

A gift to the oglers and the fondlers, and the really tight-huggers.

The mere sight of one has been scientifically proven

to lengthen a man’s life.

But, somewhere between bumblebee sting and asymmetrical standing ovation, it stopped being okay to go topless,

in a wading pool, in my own back yard.

I learned that AFTER giving up Second base, the focus will still be home plate.

And that, not everything comes out in the wash.

Like the sunburned edges of a new bikini top.

The AK-47 shaped scar across my heart

from an underwire gone haywire.

The hieroglyphic distress messages, sent from heavily laden milk-ducts.

And the pre-pubescent brand of regret from wearing a white t-shirt to a water balloon fight.

The lucky ones will go from “points sittin’ way up high”, to swinging low and sentenced to a life in blind solitary

confinement.

Only to be let out to play for what some might call “bad-behavior”.

There is a lot of jiggle room between nearly “A” and triple “F”.

At some point they all demand training, pushing up and/or padding.

There are desperate times that call for demitasse, sports suspension,

T-back or strapless. On occasion, all are required within the same day.

But it’s no mistake that these private cells are molded from the cloth of Superheros.

Lycra-spandex and lined, eyehook complicated, and designed to carry the life-support system

for future rock stars, CEO’s, Nobel Prize winners, girls with chubby legs,

and boys who can sweet talk them all apart.

Run a finger along the sacred mother of pearl,

buried and tangled up in blue.  Pray for Twin Tower’s fighting the fall.

Busted in cameo ivory, thrust forward in 3-D, 4G and CGI.

No matter the medium, there is no mistaking

the peek-a-boo glimpse of a pink area -Oh -la la.

Bless every man, woman, and child who has ever held one against their tongue.

Painted its perfect full-moon likeness on a canvas, or shaved marble till the under-curve was just right.

Like it or not, look down.

No matter what, those are your breasts.

Right now. As they are, they are perfect.

They have power. Use it for good.

You cannot deny them. No matter how many turtlenecks

and baggy sweatshirts you wear.

We all know they exist.

If only, in spirit.

The slumber party dare to bare will always be a phantom limb.

They have withstood the playground bully punch.

Persevered against prom dress cleavage envy, and

been led to believe one too many back seat, pearl-necklace promises.

They know how to slap back against the pendulum swing and shock-absorption of some madman’s boardroom table.

But they can’t ignore the energy-conserving,

 mongrel back-alley fight, between saline, silicone,

and what God, and your father’s mother, gave you.

Augmentation or reduction?

At one time or another,

I have considered them, both.

We are at least part hourglass logic.

Prepared to defy physics, diagnoses, doctors and statistics.

 So we find a way to accept latex glove palpations.

The pinch of a boy. The bite of a man.

The ravenous tug of infant lips.

Bring on the bloody nipples, the rocking chair bliss

and the holy water, let-down delirium.

It will rain diamonds under my skin.

We are each masters whose truest art is born

when we begin to discover the things we can learn to live without.

I say, just once…

dance bra-less.

Set those suckers free.

let your lady lumps lap the lights fantastic

See how many ways they can move to Jay-Zee

Lower your nipples in paint.

Play some Jazz. Let them improvise.

Jackson Pollock splatter all over your kitchen floor.

Give them a skinny dip, in the ocean at sunset.

Hang glide topless.

Flash your best friend.

Eat Right.

Play Hard.

Be Happy.

Get Plenty Of Sleep.

Pray Often.

And, Stop Worrying.

But, sometimes it’ll still come down to,

“Lady, its your boob or your life”.

So we lay our breasts in the hands of

Science and poorly trained Victoria Secret employees.

They deserve so much more than that.

If you have at least one to hold, hug it tight tonight.

9 Responses to “Stopping Boys in Their Tracks”

  1. John Alvarado Says:

    Wow, Deanne. You have a talent for exposing yourself with words in an endearing and entertaining way. And Raundi, what a wonderful ode to breasts.

    An impish thought popped into my head at the end of the first paragraph where you mention the incinerator. Normally I would self-edit, but your blog today seems to invite one to let it all hang out, so I’ll share the thought: “If you’re just going to throw it away, can I at least see and feel it once before it goes!?” Terrible! I know! Then I imagined you throwing a farewell-breast party where everyone got to have a look and a feel–friends, relatives, kids, adults. Perhaps a fund raiser. Crazy, but maybe not outside the realm of possibility for the Yes Mom!

    I’m pretty sure I’ll catch fire for the above comment, but what the heck. Hitting submit! ;-)

  2. Tina Says:

    John, what a splendid idea!

  3. Julie Says:

    No way! Deanne, I’d feel you up anytime. Take care gf! You are hot with or without!

  4. Linda Says:

    Deanne you are incredible! You stop people in their tracks with your humor, creativity and strength. Wish we could be there with you this coming week. Know that you are constantly in our thoughts and prayers.

  5. Terry Malfavon Says:

    Deanne, You are such an awesome writer. I really enjoy reading your blog.You have a way with words! Raundi’s poem is great as well…..you both rock! Good luck with your sugery on Tuesday……You are in my prayers! oxxoxoxo

  6. Amanda Carbine Says:

    Your courage is so admirable and inspiring. I’ll pray for your safe and quick treatment. I don’t know you terribly well, but you’re loved. Thank you for your intimate openness about your struggles and triumphs.

  7. Colleen Says:

    You are truly an inspiration and an incredibly beautiful woman! You could stop the boys in their tracks simply with your smile. I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your blog on my facebook page as so many women can benefit from your wit and your wisdom and your passion and your joy. Rock on, woman!!!

  8. Tracey Says:

    I don’t know you well. But I have been following your journey of late. You are one awesome chick with our without boobs. I will be thinking about you Tuesday and all week. Namaste. Tracey

  9. Sue Davis Says:

    Deanne and Raundi you are awesome ladies – courageous and inspirational. I had a lumpectomy last week and just found out that, yep, there’s more cancer in the one lymph node. more surgery next week. I’m boo-hooing like a 2-year old, but heck this is all new to me.

    But for right now my girls are okay – one I call “frankenbreast” because of the incision scar still healing. but they still there, still mine. and I hope I get to keep them. but if I don’t – I’m going to upsize from a D to DD. ;-)

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