Guest Blogger: Big Tits and a Busted Raft By Toquegirl

Right now, I’m tipping the scales at about two hundred pounds. I’m somewhere in the region of seven months pregnant, and I have cankles, an ass that almost literally will not stop, and more than one chin. I also have giant boobs, which is okay, I guess, unless you take into account the fact that they’re so huge they make the necks of all my shirts gap in front. I can look down at any given moment and see the underwires of my bra. More importantly, crumbs from whatever I’m eating at the time fall into said gap and either get stuck under the bra or land on the baby bump, wedging themselves between the fabric of my t-shirt and my stretched-taut belly skin. It itches like a bitch until I reach under the shirt to brush the crumbs away, which I do, often and immodestly, regardless of where I am at the time. Big tits aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

There was a time, though, when I thought very differently. A time when I was willing to let a man pay for my boob job, because I thought if I had giant hooters, I would somehow be more worthy of his love and I wouldn’t have to live in fear of him leaving me anymore. I thought my body was all I had to offer anyone, and my C cups weren’t going to cut it. Thankfully the man faded into the background before the damage was done. But the body image problems persisted – for years.

I was, and still am, a curvy girl. When I look at photographs of myself when I was in my twenties, it is plain to see that I was fit and healthy – at least I looked that way on the outside. My compact, muscular frame allowed me to do all the stuff that was really important to me – snowboarding, mountain biking, BMX, dancing, working a trade. I was, and still am, physically strong. I could, and still can, eat like a horse. But I wasn’t, and will never be, a size two with long legs and giant boobs. And that killed me.

I grew up in a very dysfunctional family, grew up feeling that I wasn’t good enough for anything. I wasn’t good enough to keep my mother happy, to keep my brother from harm, to keep my family together. When I turned into an adolescent, not surprisingly, these feelings manifested themselves partly as body image problems. While I may have been intelligent and funny, I wasn’t tall and slim and feminine, and therefore I wasn’t worthy of love. So I dated losers – drug addicts, alcoholics, cheaters, and plain old psychos – people who were so far beneath me I thought maybe they would cling to me like a drowning man to a raft. Of course, the raft was fatally damaged, and this approach failed spectacularly. Every time my boy of the month abandoned me for meth or booze or some skank, my self-esteem took another hit.

I fought back by drinking and smoking and playing as hard as I could. I felt my best when my diet consisted of not much more than John Player’s Specials, lots of dark beer, and strong coffee. I kept riding and hiking and dancing and working my ass off, literally. I had to keep moving to stay ahead of my demons. I knew that it was killing me, but I lost weight. Wasn’t that success?

I won’t go into the details of how things have changed for me. Suffice it to say that many years have passed, and with the help of lots of counselling and an amazing network of family and friends, I’ve come to a happier place in my life. I’ve come to realize that I’m a pretty amazing woman with a lot to offer, and I’ve become pretty comfortable in my own skin. Last year I celebrated the birth of my first son – something that, for a long time, I never believed I would get to experience. Now I’m expecting my second, and I couldn’t be happier. I’m finally working towards the things I’ve always wanted, and for the first time that I can remember, my self-esteem isn’t standing in the way.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I can see the healthy, strong woman that has always been there looking back at me, and I think I’m beautiful. I can see that my smile lines are straight up wrinkles now and my skin has some sun damage. My hips have spread and my boobs ain’t never coming up for air, but I am happier now than I was when everything bounced instead of jiggled.

Stacey Woodward is the creative force behind Toquegirl. Most of the time you can find her frantically clearing her son’s wake of destruction, caring for her gramma, or wondering where the hell the dogs ran off to. She wastes her precious free time sitting in her basement lair, writing about life in Toquegirlworld.

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