...at least we hope.
My awkward phase lasted from 1985 through 1996. (That seems REALLY effing long to me!)
...and that's just the "physically awkward" phase. I haven't even begun to discuss the socially awkward phase. (Which was from 1972 through March of 2000 when I finally just said, "Fuck it. Fuck you and Fuck that giant box that I can't/won't fit into and that giant stick for your asses that comes with it.")
Prior to 2000, and more specifically September 1999, I had ginormous boobies. GIANT! They were freaks of nature which blossomed pretty much over spring break my first year in Florida.
I was 14 and had ALWAYS been the flat-chested one (Remember the water balloon-bra-stuffing incident of 1984?).
I was initially really super pleased to suddenly be blessed with anything bigger than a pimple, but soon realized how cruel people could be...
...and that suddenly I had little identity outside of my boobs.
I'm not sure anyone could tell me what color my eyes were. (Coincidentally, they are a pretty effing spectacular brown with golden flecks. My eyes ROCK!)
I knew this because I would stare into the mirror trying to find ME.
I liked my nose.
My lips were pretty cool too.
I had a huge smile and straight teeth.
Generally, I would screw all this up and stick out my tongue and make goofy faces just to get people to see that there was more to me than tits.
When I would walk down the Ft. Lauderdale strip (what would be a boardwalk in most places) strange men who did not know me would grab my boobs or poke them to see if they were real.
I was 15 and 16.
Eventually, I just wore large t-shirts to cover them, and then looked nice and fat next to my perfectly skinny and normal-chested friends.
No one gave a crap what I had to say. I was immediately a whore because I had big boobs. The actual status of my virginity was irrelevant.
I was a whore and some parents upon seeing my boobs would rather that their angelic daughters not hang with me.
I used to dream of taking a knife and simply cutting my boobs off.
As I became an adult, I still hated them.
I did not feel sexy.
I did not feel human.
In my history, the mere fact that I had these ginormous boobs made me a tease and at times I was punished for it.
I eventually moved away to the Midwest where, in my naivety, I had assumed people were more "innocent" and less cruel.
Not true.
People are people and tits are tits.
If anything, the women folk hated me upon sight and the man-boys did not mince words about the things they would like to do to me/my boobs.
It was if they thought I would simply unscrew them from my chest and hand them over, since I didn't really exist as an actual person.
It wasn't the men's behavior but my boobs that were to blame. Of course.
With every job, I had to fight my ass off to be taken seriously and I would always secretly pray for a woman boss so I wouldn't have the drama.
I would bind my chest with ace bandages to make my boobs appear smaller.
Then cancer happened.
I was so angry at my boobs!
First they tortured me with pain and not allowing clothes to fit me properly.
Then they make me a freak of nature by "standing out" like a sore thumb.
Then they have the nerve to harbor cancer.
Effing jerks!
"Fine, Fuckers!" I thought to myself. "Out you go!"
*gives disgusted and disapproving sneer at space where boobs used to be*
Honestly, the decision to simply go under the knife instead of pumping my body full of poison was pretty easy to make.
4,000+ stitches later, I started imagining myself jogging and running marathons without getting black eyes from my boobies.
(I feel that it is important to note here that to date, regardless of curious lack of boobs, I have made only 2 marginal attempts to jog and zero attempts to run a marathon...or even a 5K...hell, I haven't even run 5 blocks!)
After the surgery, people started to notice that I had a face.
They made eye contact.
It was nice.
Oddly, not as much changed with the man-boys.
I was still treated like a piece of meat...just a different cut.
While I won't pretend that there isn't some benefit to people finding you attractive, I can say that the payoff was never worth the hassle.
Every success is questioned, if not by one's self, then by others.
The constant and remarkable comments that people feel they are entitled to make to you are astounding.
Even when I started racing, I knew and didn't pretend that I didn't know, that I was chosen by my first team for my looks first and personality second. It certainly wasn't for my racing skill, because I don't have much.
I can look the part and damn, when Dennis Fickinger catches me at the right angle, that picture will convince you that I kicked everyone's ass.
In poking fun at another female racer, I posted pics of me in sexy-ish clothing on my bike as a joke last year.
You know what?
(This will shock you...)
My racing ability did not improve because more males noticed me.
*smacks head in mock astonishment*
I was still the same girl pulling up to the line and my perceived hotness did not make me a better racer. (Believe me, if it had, I would have been the first one at the make-up counter and made appointments for Botox and and a boob job!)
*shakes head*
I didn't become someone suddenly worth knowing.
I didn't become a better mom, a better girlfriend, or a better friend.
At the end of the day, whether the topic is bike racing or ethics, you better hope you have a whole lot more in your bag than your looks, because no matter what the photographs say, no one can see that stuff when the lights go out...and you have to be able to sleep with yourself...and wake up to yourself as well.
While I can appreciate other women who are physically beautiful, I do tend to look for something more.
After all, I was a girl once defined by her boobs, and the me that exists without them is ugly and beautiful all at once...
...and knowing that is all the power I will ever need...on and off the bike.
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