My Right Boob

A couple weeks ago, the priest at Mass took out his notes and started preaching the age old lesson that everyone has a cross to bear. I looked around and noticed certain members of the congregation postulating on theirs. The guy with the wrestling ear touched his lobe. The mom with the children who always misbehave held them tight. The fat kid put his arms across his chest. I pushed my right boob down.

My right side (the dominant one) - right calf, right hand, right bicep - is slightly bigger than my left. I run right, type right, eat right. What I didn't expect though was that during pregnancy (aka my stint as a bactrian camel) and nursing the same phenomenon would happen to my twin peaks. While my left boob has played a more mellow role in the nurturing of Mary, my right boob has been over eager to store, spurt, and overfeed. I remember waking up about four days after Mary was born, looking in the mirror and nearly fainting at the size of my engorged breast. It could easily have taken first prize at the county fair. 

So the first thing that came to mind when I heard, 'cross to bear' - was the burden that it is my lopsided right boob. While the general appearance of my listing chest is annoying, it's really something else that can be hard to bear. The judgement it and I get, particularly during my runs.

It's marathon training season in Chicagoland. It's also hot and humid. So I have been boldly going where perhaps no breastfeeding mom has gone before - running in a sports bra (well a double bagged one.) And with the removal of a mere layer, I have noticed the general female population turn against me.

While the leers I get from men, mouth agape, 'jackpot' mentally registering in their eyes make me want to run the other way; it's the looks I get from women that really get me riled up. They often come in pairs - two gossiping women, power walking or jogging along the street. Suddenly, their verbal exchange is hushed, their eyes roll, their heads shake, and I propel myself forward a little faster to avoid their assault.

A couple paces ahead, I replay the comments I assume their making in my mind:
What is this Baywatch?
That looks terrible.
Gross.
Put a shirt on.
Get a better sports bra. 
Just who does she think she is?!

Who do I think I am. Well, let's see.

I'm Olga's granddaughter and apparently I earned these aberrations of assets from her. I've been exercising and for that matter playing competitive sports with them all of my adult life; so I'm someone who is strong enough to carry an extra ten pounds on the trail with me every day.

I'm a breastfeeding mom - a woman who needs that right boob to take good care of her baby. I'm a mother who can't help the fact that her suckers store an insane amount of milk - an amount that even the best industrial grade pumps can't get out.

Yes, I'm a double D runner. And I'm likely running farther and faster than your triple A battery set will take you.

I'm someone who is perpetually annoyed with the selection of sports bras available for well endowed women. No, LuluLemon your ridiculous Ta Ta Tamer does not work for anything more than a downward dog pose.

I'm someone who hates them too; who thinks they look just as ridiculous, bouncing up and down as you do; who is embarrassed by your stares.

Really, my cross, like so many others', is my humanity - the skin that masks all that I am underneath.  Whether it's our size or shape, skin color, gender, or BMI. Whether it's a scar, mole, pattern of baldness or missing tooth. Every day people fight to help others understand that they are so much more than the sum of their parts. And sometimes, like today, it really frustrates me. 

As I put Mary down for a nap just now I wondered what mark would be her cross? Those rolly polly thighs? That widow's peak she inherited from her Mom? Whatever, my hope is that someday soon, we'll raise our children not to judge outward appearances and instead assess the soul.

Lo.