The Feminine Physique Mystique
Unsurprisingly I have a really complicated relationship with my body. I say "unsurprisingly" not because I think I exude confidence, but because you've probably, by now, heard that confession countless times - if not verbally, then by observing someone you know (or don’t) react to their reflection in a mirror/store window, or grimace at a photo that was just taken. Fact is, I don't know a single person who is 100%, hell, even 75%, happy with the way they look. It's unfortunately an adopted reality that our bodies will forever be subjectively-deemed as “works in progress.”
It's taken me a year to shape this essay. Not because I don't know what to say, but because I have too much to say. The further back in the archives I delve, the more twisted it all seems to get. What's the root of my body issues? It's not as simple as blaming adverts and the fashion industry; it's a mass of interconnected every-day experiences and interactions. Seemingly harmless comments from strangers, or worse, family members, glued together, framing mirrors. Through wading in the swamp of complexes I have, I've realized that, while I also fall victim to linking quantitative measurements with self-worth, my bigger demon stems from my experiences of having a body type that’s so heavily sexualized.
In case you haven't noticed (you have,) I have a pretty large chest. Not quite sure where it came from, because no one else in our extended family has large breasts. My mom is the oddball who passed it on to my sister and me, and I'm the even bigger oddball because I somehow surpassed both of them in cup size (later on will come my conspiracy theory about food additives, cortisol levels, etc.) But what's even more odd is that I was a late bloomer. And, you know, even at the age when all the other girls were filling out their shirts more than me, I never longingly looked at them and wanted that for myself. I felt perfectly comfortable in my boyish frame. But alas, when I turned 16, it's like my body hopped on the express train to adulthood. Suddenly I had bumper-car hips and this shelf, that, though great for catching food before it hit the floor, became an obstacle to having basic, stress-free interactions with people.
As an insecure teen, it felt like my breasts were the first impression; the conversation piece. It felt like they were the indicator of my intelligence, date-ability and, worse...fuckability. Even before The Great Boob Race in middle school, I noticed at a pretty young age (like so many others,) that my body was somehow linked to my identity in the social landscape. It’s been quite unnerving thinking back, remembering bits I’ve subconsciously buried for years:
I remember being 9 and ducking into a store for an hour and a half because an older man was stalking me and my friend.
I remember being 13 and walking into the hospital to visit my grandma and having an older man look me up and down and grunt as I walked past.
I remember being 15 and having my middle-aged guitar teacher spend chunks of class saying how pretty I was, and "if only [he] were younger!"
I remember being 17 and having one of my friends tell me that the night prior all my guy friends sat around and talked about my body and what they wanted to do with me.
And, more recently, I remember being 26 and walking to grab a cup of coffee at 8am and having a stranger shout crude, explicit comments at me from across the street.
More generally speaking, in such moments, you just want to disappear. It feels violating and like you’ve lost all ownership of your body. It's this unwelcomed, analytical gaze, disguised as affirmation, that makes you feel like you are only some shell, and that the vast majority of men only want to know that layer of you. It's extremely sad and angering knowing that all of those fleeting interactions, lasting mere seconds each, have governed the way I value myself and have shaped my comfort level with exploring intimacy, even with those I trust. I suppose I can't help but feel like my large chest, small waist, and curves create a porn star aura around me. These showy features of mine, that seem to insinuate things to the world, belong to everyone else but me. They feel contrary to who I really am.
Mutually-initiated/consented intimacy has proved to be a challenge for me as well. Even though it's with a trusting partner, I still feel as though I am there, on a stage, being oddly worshiped in a way; and I am just overwhelmed with feeling like I am not fitting the mold of what is expected of me. This disassociation of body and mind has brought me to tears at times, often freezing up and losing my voice. It’s like I battle an ingrained linkage, between (My Body) and (Vulnerability and Loss of Control.)
Mutually-initiated/consented intimacy has proved to be a challenge for me as well. Even though it's with a trusting partner, I still feel as though I am there, on a stage, being oddly worshiped in a way; and I am just overwhelmed with feeling like I am not fitting the mold of what is expected of me. This disassociation of body and mind has brought me to tears at times, often freezing up and losing my voice. It’s like I battle an ingrained linkage, between (My Body) and (Vulnerability and Loss of Control.)
So why am I writing this exactly? For some kind of catharsis? To make you all realize that having GG boobs is the burden I bear? Not totally, though I do feel slightly more at peace. This is just a topic I’ve scoured the internet for, to feel validated in my discomfort, and it’s surprisingly underrepresented. I can't be the only well-endowed person who feels their bosom has suppressed their expression of intimacy. I also don’t think it’s totally helpful to put commentaries out on the internet, with no intention of offering potential remedy. Misery parties are self-assuring and all, but it gets quite cyclical and exhausting if all you’re reading is, “yes, this is a thing, and that’s the way it is and it sucks.” I do want to try and offer some helpful tips in how to come to a place of peace with a feminine physique that the world is unhealthily obsessed with.
I think one of the most helpful things I’ve done to be more comfortable with my body is to, honestly, be naked more. (I’m sure this is something my boyfriend is also grateful for.) I’m not saying you need to become a full-time nudist (although, if you’re into that lifestyle, all the power to you!), but I think it helps spending quality time with your naked body in a nonsexual way. If the only instances you spend a significant amount of time naked are during sex, then that’s the association you’ll have with it. And if, like me, you’re constantly feeling objectified, you need to do all you personally can to lessen the self-inflicted sexualization of your naked form.
A few years ago I heard of this photographer (and I’m totally blanking on her name now!!) who photographed women, naked, doing everyday things – doing the dishes, lying "unflatteringly" on the sofa watching TV, eating cereal – in an attempt to de-lustify (that’s a word now) the feminine physique. I was blown away by the images, and it really got me re-evaluating how I view my own naked body. So I started *trying to* embrace it more.
I started doing yoga and pilates naked – I saw my body working in the moment to support me and getting stronger with each move and stretch. I started sleeping naked – I learned to embrace my natural cushions that keep me warm. And through those tiny adjustments made in the privacy of my bedroom, I noticed a shift in my thinking taking place. I started to feel comfortable and “at home” in my skin. In being naked and stepping up on a chair to stow away some linens one day, I took notice of the muscles in my thighs. I saw them flex and I just thought, “Wow, it’s incredible that these strong legs have supported me across hundreds-of-thousands of miles; up 45 degree mountainsides; through ice, snow, oceans.” (sounds a bit corny, but sometimes you have to lean into it.)
I started doing yoga and pilates naked – I saw my body working in the moment to support me and getting stronger with each move and stretch. I started sleeping naked – I learned to embrace my natural cushions that keep me warm. And through those tiny adjustments made in the privacy of my bedroom, I noticed a shift in my thinking taking place. I started to feel comfortable and “at home” in my skin. In being naked and stepping up on a chair to stow away some linens one day, I took notice of the muscles in my thighs. I saw them flex and I just thought, “Wow, it’s incredible that these strong legs have supported me across hundreds-of-thousands of miles; up 45 degree mountainsides; through ice, snow, oceans.” (sounds a bit corny, but sometimes you have to lean into it.)
It feels like I’ve just entered into a new period of my life, where for the first time, I feel more confident in the body I've been born with. My curvy body isn’t a vessel for male enjoyment; it’s been conditioned by me to support me and comfort me through 27 intense years. I am strong; I am healthy; and every dimple, freckle, scar, and wrinkle only add to my unique beauty.
Anyway, it’s worth giving a shot if you share similar experiences and insecurities. Obviously it’s not a panacea, but I do think it’s a matter of figuring out what makes you feel physically strong and honing in on that. If you can reach a place where you feel so comfortable and beautiful naked, then when you’re intimate with someone, it’s more about sharing this thing you love with another person, rather than feeling like you’re a spectacle.
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