My Tit Story

The statement to LOVE THE WAY I LOOK has finally gotten through to me.

I think it was timely that today I decided to love my breasts, especially the right tit. It seems the only day I usually notice my body is after my monthly nude weigh-in. When I glanced into the mirror and examine my coloring, texture, shape and girth, my sight often rests on my breasts and especially that one inverted nipple. This time I decided not to blame it or regret its disconcerting look. Perhaps I should have considered this inverted tip petulant; looked upon its insistence on being different or irregular, bravery of a sort.

I don’t know why I faulted this nipple – at times, castigated it. Even here I refer to it as not quite mine with “this” nipple rather than “my” nipple. Was I ashamed of another flawed part of myself? Here was another thing wrong with my body, my reproductive organs were already abnormal, deformed; my endocrine or hormonal system unbalanced, my body went menopausal before its 25th year when in fact, my hormone levels dropped to pubescent levels. Then my nipple stopped demonstrating sensitivity to hot or cold or arousal by refusing to pout or hardened. Initially I was worried, frightened senselessly, after all, an inverted nipple can be an early warning sign for breast cancer, but after diligent monthly self-exams and dozens of medical exams those fears were dispelled. My nipple was just plain strange.

It seems I had to defend this breast or more accurately explain that this tit could not be relied upon to reflect my heightened libido. Guys wanted to know if I was excited, they worked the breast and nipple to the point of discomfort or pain in an effort to see the aroused tip. Too often I heard myself explaining that, “this breast doesn’t work.” Now I realize it was a dreadful thing to say. Nothing on one’s body is identical, why must my nipples be so.

I almost forgot how for years I prayed my breasts would grow. I was a flat-chest teen save for my large dark mahogany areolas. I loved the attention my braless breasts received when my nipples protruded. As a Catholic school girl, I donned a bra for high school days and Mass but freed them every chance I got. In fact, I don’t recall wearing a bra during those college years. When I gained excess weight or grew phat (sexually appealingly plump) my breasts grew from an AA size cup to a perky A cup and finally into a B cup. I felt voluptuous; I could finally be proud of my feminine bosom. But this admiration was short-lived because one tit stopped acting right a few years later. And I stopped loving them. I stopped appreciating their color, shape and size, I no longer enjoyed having that one tit fondled because it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal, and it remained inverted and deflated. What’s wrong with Waldo now?

Alas, I believe the universe wants me to do more than pay lip service to this realization that my breasts did not fail me by being intractable and diffident. The universe wants me to affirm their worth. I think I’ve been challenged to adore my physical self in all its resplendent flawed beauty. Now I accept that I do not have to be perfect to be beautiful or magnificent. I declare: I love my body!

It was serendipitous that I received an emailed message about the women’s empowering project on breast health where women share their intimate stories about ones relationship with their breasts: TELLING INTIMATE TRUE STORIES (TITS). I am grateful I have an inverted nipple because it has taught me to appreciate what I have and don’t have. I love my body, the way it looks and feels. But I am more than my body and my bosom. I love myself with or without these tits. And for this, I am grateful.

Myrtle Beach [Haiku]

Waves lapping the shore
Tourists savor heat rays on
Wondrous wet playground

ISO healthy turbo boost (Have you tried electrolytes?)

Walked early today in this oppressive heat, it wasn’t the temperature or unabated sunshine that had me feeling like I was melting, it was the dank humidity! Immediately upon returning home I downed 2 glasses of delicious cold water but it didn’t refresh me like I expected or needed. Minutes later I had a piece of fresh fruit thinking that my body would benefit from a healthy glucose rush &/or antioxidants—I really wanted sweetened iced lemonade, but I found my body still unsatisfied. I doubled checked myself to make certain I wasn’t dehydrated. Satisfied my body was flushed, I headed to the shower.

As water flowed over me the word: Electrolytes entered my thoughts. Electrolytes, what are they, only the print or televised ads came to mind. Why would I even think of such things--electrolytes? I’m wondering now if I’m even spelling the word correctly. Ever the non-athlete, I have never tasted a Gatorade or any sports drinks made popular by professional athletes and the marketing machinery. But I’m pausing to consider: Is my body talking to me in ways differently from the usual painful scenario? Would an electrolyte boost relieve me of this strange thirst for liquid rejuvenation?

I do want to reward this organic machine -- my blessed body -- for heartily carrying me around the neighborhood today and through the years, in spite of my ignorance, abuse and neglect. Do my cells require electrolytes or something more than common fluids to replenish it on dog days such as these? Electrolytes: It’s my big question for today.

Medicine for Melancholy film query

Have you seen this 2008 film: Medicine for Melancholy? I’m trying to identify several sites the characters visited in the San Francisco area. It’s a smart, provocative story of a young Black couple’s one-night stand laden rich with a discussion of contemporary racial politics, i.e., identity, dating, gentrification, etc. Also, San Francisco is more than a backdrop for this storyline, it’s another tantalizing character. (I love the SF, Oakland, Berkeley, and wine country region.)

I want to know more about several places they visited on this 24-hour fling. It seemed like a culturally rich African American tour of the city. One site appeared to be a gallery hosting an audio-exhibit, a door had Maya Angelou’s name on it; another place was an urban waterfall and beneath the serene downfall, a wall inscribed with powerful thoughts of some noted African American and then there was a popular place where the spoken word was revered.

This artsy film aired on Showtime (on our DirectTV channel) but I missed the credits which may have cited these interesting venues which I want to visit. If you get a chance please screen this film. I think many of you will find it interesting. And if you have, or do see it then let’s talk about a couple of points. Medicine for Melancholy, a provocative film with discernible layers. Hopefully, I’ll get to see the film again, and soon.