"She has the perfect figure," she said. "Big on top, tiny in the middle, big on the bottom." She made an hourglass shape in the air with her hands. My blood boiled a little. Perfect, she says. Big tits, tiny waist, curvaceous ass. By whose standards? Are we buying into what the media tells us is perfect? Are these our own ideas and preferences? I looked down at my body. Know what I saw? I saw an infant, only a couple months old, cradled in my arms. He was discreetly latched onto my "imperfect," small right breast, greedily sucking and gulping down life-sustaining fluid produced by my "imperfect" body. I thought of my soft and baggy midsection striped with stretch marks. I thought about the fact that seven of the most amazing people I know have lived there. My body has grown, brought forth and nourished seven other lives! My body is fucking amazing. I smiled to myself. My nursing infant had not one complaint about my body.
Neither has Denny. He thinks I'm beautiful. He touches me like he thinks I'm beautiful. He has occasionally expressed awe at my body and touched it reverently, knowing it has produced life. I think this is as it should be. Early on he told me he thought that me being a mother was sexy.
Interesting perceptions we humans have.