Sometimes I love my tits. Sometimes? Most of the time? Much of the time, perhaps, most accurately. Sometimes, however, I absolutely don’t. Sometimes they don’t feel good and they’re too big for my bras. Sometimes they feel saggy and I am overly aware that their skin is doing an age- related wrinkling thing which I struggle to countenance. I don’t actively love very many things about my body, and so when I stop loving this part emergency sirens can start to sound in my head.
We don’t see the things as they are; we see them as we are. I could change some things about my body if I chose to. I’ve been trying to change the way I see my body by changing things about it for my entire adult life: it’s pointless and boring and cyclical. It just plain and simply doesn’t work. I can only find new ways to look at my body, new perspectives from which to assess it, different angles from which its beauty is rendered undeniable. That’s the aim, anyway, the plan; the dream.