Yeah, you kinda have to read something titled that, don't you?
And you should. It's something worth reminding ourselves from time to time.
I have small boobs. I have small hands and my boobs are barely a handful. And I'm not going to pretend like that hasn't bothered me in the past. I'm not even going to pretend like it doesn't bother me still sometimes. Just as Pearce points out, it's hard not to see your bodily bits and pieces as "objects being laid side by side on tables at flea markets, compared next to all the other breasts [...] of the world" and, too often, find yourself lacking in one way or another.
My breasts--sigh--they're small and round-ish and too easily lost in even just normal-fitting clothes. They never quite fill out non-padded bras and completely disappear at any angle wider than perpendicular to the ground. Which is nothing compared to the inevitable vanishing act that happens the instant I stand next to anyone with larger breasts than mine--which is to say, most of the female population.
Yeah, suffice to say, I relate very much with the woman Pearce was talking about. I feel her weird-boob pain.
It took me a long time to really come to appreciate what I saw as my shortcomings. To realize that not being able to fill a bra meant that bras were optional, that I could quite comfortably forgo an article of clothing that most women think of as obligatory. I really don't own a "functional" bra; every one I own is fun and pretty. More an accessory than an undergarment. They are never support; they are window-dressing.
And, even if my breasts get overshadowed by larger ones at times, every person I've been with has always enjoyed them. Because Pearce is completely correct, "They’re fun to have touched, and they’re fun to touch. It’s always been that way, it always will be that way." The partners I've been with have always been more attached to the person my bodily bits and pieces are attached to than just the parts alone. My small, weird boobs were beautiful to them because, unlike me--who mentally separated them from me and scrutinized them against the catalog of others out there in the wide, wide world--my partners saw them as just another part of the whole of me. And they liked me. They enjoyed what they had in front of them because those boobs--weird and small as they are--belong to me, a person--whole and complete--that they already enjoy.
And, most importantly, I love my weird boobs because I enjoy them. They are great sources of pleasure, that both give and receive in massive and amazing quantities. How could the way they're packaged ever compare to that? You don't return, resent, or muck about with something that works just because it doesn't look quite the way you wanted it to.
"And my advice is, if you’re with someone who really would look at you in all of your unique genetic perfection, and who would really take your gift and spit on it by wanting something else, put your clothes back on and tell them to get the hell out. It’s your gift to give. It’s your gift to take away. And nobody deserves it who doesn’t understand that. Nobody deserves it who isn’t enchanted, and excited, and fascinated by your gift."