“So, you are starting to get moobs then?” I had to confess my ignorance; I had no idea what she was talking about. “You know, moobs. Male boobs” My left eye started twitching uncontrollably as I fought to keep the indignant rage out of my voice. “No, I am not getting moobs because I am not a male. I am female and therefore getting breasts. Rush Limbaugh gets moobs. As do Krusty the Clown, Meatloaf, and Louie Anderson. I am getting breasts, like Jennifer Love Hewitt, Janeane Garofalo, or more accurately, my 11 year old cousin. How dare you besmirch my beautiful budding mammaries!”
All right, I didn’t actually say all that, but it would have been great if I did. I think the Germans have a word for when you think of something clever well after the moment, full of guttural consonants and twice the length of this sentence. In reality I just kind of voiced a sputtering objection having been taken completely by surprise. Imagine, the budding evidence of my flowering femininity compared to the fatty deposits of a truck driving galoot on his fourth trip up to the Ponderosa buffet. Ugh! The nerve!
I know, I’m totally overreacting here. It was a ‘no harm intended’ observation from a beloved family member who has ample recollection of yours truly with a scraggly beard. I should just be grateful she hasn’t followed through on an earlier threat to end my existence. Still, it pushed my buttons more than I would have expected.
I’m not at all a fan of the cutesy little names men come up with for breasts. ‘Sweater puppies’, ‘titties’, ‘chesticles’, and the terribly clever ‘breasteses’. It’s one thing to insult and disparage something recognized and acknowledged as genuinely female, but another to paint that same tissue with a horrid coating of maleness. The sensitivity comes from it not being enough to know my flowering is bona fide glandular tissue capable of feeding hungry infants and not schweddy blobs of fat. It’s that I need to have it recognized and known; an admittedly juvenile need for external validation. A little ridiculous, right? Of course I am just entering puberty, so maybe I’m allowed a little leeway for being emotionally high maintenance.
For the record, I’m also not overly fond of the masculinization of any of my changes. It freaks me out a little bit. After bottom surgery there is no way in hell I want to hear any references to my ‘mangina’. God help you if you call me a ‘munt’.