WHO'S THE BOOB NOW?

Over recent years, as I’ve lost a little weight, I’ve become increasingly self-conscious about my boobs.

Having had a partial mastectomy, my poor lefty is considerably smaller than my righty.  As such, I wear a partial prosthetic so I don’t look like a total freak.  It call it my ‘plastic fantastic’.

However, sometimes I forget to put the plastic fantastic in.  Actually, more often than not, I choose not to wear it, because it’s heavy, hot and shits me.

Such is the case last week, when I went to work.  I was kicking myself, because the dress I was wearing is the type that makes the difference in my girls obvious, and I should have known better than to leave my fake boob at home.

So picture this: I’m at Sunshine Plaza (yep: fucken place I just love), and I’ve done the banking, and am standing at the Donut King stand, waiting to buy a six pack of jam doeys for the boys at work.  (Yes, I had one.  About a zillion calories, I know).

As I finished being served, and turned to leave, these two teenage girls come up to me.  You know the type: dressed in a school dress that’s way too short, with long, black teased out hair, makeup applied with a trowel, eyes so black I’m wondering if they used the entire liner pencil and tube of mascara in one go, mobiles in hand and chewing on gum like a cow chews on cud. 

I have cows.  I’ve seen them chew cud.  Teenagers slappers = cud chewin’ cows.

Anyway, I’m standing there thinking ‘wtf?’ and these girls are clearly trying not to laugh, and glance over their shoulders a couple of times.  Their friends are standing not far away.

Great.  What the fuck’s going on here?  I brace myself.

‘So, um….’ Slappa number one says.  ‘We just thought we ought to tell you…’

‘Us being girls and all…’ the second one says, indicating all three of us.

‘Do you realise that one of your boobs is way bigger than the other?’ said number one.

My heart literally stops.  What. The. Fuck.

Not only am I horrifically embarrassed, but I instantly wonder the best way to handle this situation.  It doesn’t take but a second to acknowledge that these girls are just c**ts, and they’re picking on the ‘fat chick’.  My course of action is decided in a heartbeat.

‘You don’t say…’

‘Yes.’ Number two tries not to laugh, and a couple of other Donut King customers turn around to look at us.  ‘We thought we should tell you…’

‘What makes you think I don’t already know?’

They just look at each other, and suffocate their smiles.  I glanced over their shoulders at their friends, who were smiling broadly.  Clearly, a dare had been made here.

Mmmm…. You picked the wrong bunny, honey.

‘Do you know why they’re like that?’ I ask calmly, raising my voice just a little.  ‘Because there is a reason for it.’ That’s when I see it.  That flicker of fear in their eyes.  Only a flicker, but enough for me to see that they’re doubting their recent course of action.

I take a step closer.  ‘They are a different size, because I’ve had a partial mastectomy.’ I explain, raising my voice a little more, and more people turn around to look.  ‘Do you have the intelligence between you to know that a mastectomy is?’

They don’t answer, as the smiles slide from their faces.  The glance over at their friends, whose smiles are also wavering.

‘No?  Well let me explain.’ I smile.  ‘A mastectomy is something you have done when you have BREAST CANCER.’ I explain like I’m speaking to a pair of fuckwits, which I am.  I step toward them as they take a step back.  ‘Breast cancer.  That’s what I’ve had, and this body is the result of it.’

The girls now exchange panicked looks and blush pinker than the Donut King bag in my hand.

‘But I thank you.’ I smile warmly.  ‘I thank you for reminding me about the part of my life I try to forget.  Thank you for bringing up all of the pain and shit that I’ve tried so hard to move past.  Thank you for being a pair of dumbarse, judgemental molls that have nothing better to do that pick on someone they don’t even know.’

The girls exchange an ‘oh fuck’ look as my voice jumps up an octave (or ten).  Most people in the vicinity are look at us now, and their little group of friends is simply looking on in horror.  Dare = fail.

‘Are you happy?  Do you feel better about yourselves now you’ve picked on me?  What kind of person does that?  What does that say about you?  How pathetic are you to get your thrills out of picking on a complete stranger?’

‘I’m s-s-sorry…’ number one mutters.

‘So you fucken should be!’ I bark.  ‘You should be fucken ashamed of yourselves! Is your ego that fragile?  Is your self-esteem that low that you have to better yourself this way?’

‘We said we’re sorry…’ number two mutters with a bit of ‘tude.

‘No you fucken didn’t!’ I bark again, and they jump.  ‘Your about as sorry as I am.  How fucken dare you say that to me.  My body may not be perfect, but it has a history.  You’re just a pair of insecure slappers playing a game of popularity with your useless fucken friends over there, and you failed.’

‘Here here.’ a woman’s voice comes from behind me.  The girls look panicked.

‘What kind of people are you?’ I say quietly, as I push past them, and head for the entrance, but not before one last parting shot.

‘Take comfort in the fact that you have really hurt me.  That’s what you wanted to achieve, wasn’t it?’ I pause. ‘A cheap thrill at the expense of some loser fat-chick? I hope you’re fucken happy with yourselves.’ They just stand there; stunned, embarrassed and hopefully; ashamed.  I shoot a harsh look at their friends, who instantly look everywhere except at me, and turn and leave.

As I climb into the car, I reach for my mobile, and Charlie’s voice comes over the car stereo system as my tears fall.

‘They’ just a pack of sluts, darl.  Don’t let them worry you.’

‘It still hurts though, Charlie…’ and I think of how judgemental I can be toward people, and ask myself; would I do that?  Would I go straight up to someone and make fun of their imperfections to their face? 

I recall when Jade was little, and she would see someone in a wheelchair, or someone mentally disabled walking/wheeling along the street, she would look at me with fear in her eyes, because she didn’t understand what was going on.  I would patiently say to her ‘it’s not their fault that they’re different.  They can’t help it.  Don’t judge them on what you can see, because inside is someone that’s a fighter.’

I’d be the first to smirk at a dude in black and green check shorts with multi-coloured hair and a billion piercings ordering a donut from Donut King, but I would never discriminate or ‘bully’ him.  As ridiculous as he looks to me, at least he has the balls to be himself. 

The chubby slappas that wear fluro dresses that are too tight or too short; the old tarts with missing teeth that love my bolero jacket: they’re all people with stories.  Just like me.

However, these girls were viscous.  They were bullies.  I wonder what their thought process was before they approached me?  I wonder, at what point, they decided that saying that to me would be funny?  I wonder, at what point, they justified their actions.

I wonder if they think of it now?  I wonder if they feel shame?  I wonder if they’ll change.

I doubt it.

Peace out.