I watch you. You don’t realise, but I see everything. I lurk in the shadows, just one among the many. I devour your conversations. I save your pictures. I spend hours thinking, plotting, putting two and two together. And I’m getting closer.
You don’t realise the effect your throwaway remarks have on me. How could you? I’m just a faceless name amongst your thousands of followers.
I hate your easy exhibitionism. The way you preen, flirt, joke and tease.
I touch myself.
(That got your attention didn’t it?)
It’s #boobiewednesday on Twitter – the day where thousands (?)/millions(?) of women (and some men) change their avatars to a picture of their chests in honour of breast cancer awareness (now, personally, the old cynic in me is not entirely convinced of the point of this exercise, but I am digressing slightly).
I make no bones of the fact that my bra size has always been firmly in the “small” camp, and I thought I had come to terms with this fact…until I was confronted with the regular Wednesday array of heaving bosoms that suddenly filled my timeline. For the first time in a long time I developed a slight complex about being under-endowed. Completely ridiculous at my age, I told myself! Yet there it was…that sulky jealous teenage reaction of “oh put your tits away” as I realised it was Wednesday.
At first I joined in – desperately padding my bras with chicken fillets and experimenting with maximising camera angles. Then I ignored it for a while, pretending it wasn’t happening, all the time gritting my teeth and complimenting the spectacular racks, all the time feeling slightly uncomfortable about the whole thing until I realised exhibitionism really wasn’t for me and quietly stuck to my shoes avi.
These days boobiewednesday seems to have trailed off in my timeline somewhat, partly down to some unfollowing (not necessarily to do with the boobs!), partly down to what I can only assume is a general loss of interest. There are of course plenty of accounts that still cater for the boob lover out there – Wednesday or no Wednesday – so I don’t think the lack of my fried eggs on the timeline really constitutes a great loss.
The ironic thing is that I went to get myself measured at the weekend, and was told that I had to go up one back and one cup size. “No more A cup, please” said the nice lady in M&S! Of course I should be pleased, but part of me was secretly disappointed. Whilst I am still very much below average, I feel aggrieved that I can no longer trot out the “shopping in the my first bra section” jokes. Plus, let’s face it, the reason I have gone up a size is that there’s now another body image thing to start worrying about – the onset of middle-aged spread.