My mother's back has more issues than a single episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show, so it was no surprise when we discovered that my back too, had weakness but with some mundane exercises the weakness didn't seem to pose much of a problem. That was until a delightful young (ahem) man decided that driving a coach full of special needs children, when less than a mile from our final destination I might add, was the perfect opportunity to display his formula 1 racing ability (none, as it turned out. Shocking, quite shocking). Though we were stuck in God awful traffic, our driver decided that revving the engine and slamming the breaks was an appropriate driving style. I was oblivious to all of this, as I was trying to prevent one of the children from having a panic attack, it was not until I found myself being flung forward faster than Usain Bolt only stopping when the oldest boy on the coach caught (rescued!!) me that I became aware of what was going on. I had been launched forward more than five seats and as a results, was left with bruises the size of South Jerusalem on each thigh and lower back. Oh, who am I kidding, it wasn't my lower back, it was my bottom. I had a ruddy great bruise on my bottom, and it was painful.
My boss made me visit the doctor and was not surprised when he told me that I had whiplash. No one was surprised it seems, no one except me. Why had no one thought to tell me that I had whiplash? My doctor mentioned it as if it was common knowledge,'Oh, the pain is obviously due to the whiplash and will settle down in a couple of weeks or so'. No, not obviously, as it happens. Unobviously! Completely out of the bloody blue, actually. I didn't voice any of this at the time, naturally, I merely tittered, the sort you might do on a first date when the date in question attempts a lame joke but you still rather fancy him so you titter for good measure.
As a consequence of all this my back is now, for want of a better phrase, fucked. About a year and a half after my gymnastic display on that horrendous coach, my upper back began to twinge. This began at about 11am one morning and by the time the children, at the special needs school I worked at, had eaten their lunch I could barely move my left arm. My boss demanded I go home and by night fall I couldn't walk unaided. My beyond wonderful chiropractor signed me off work for a week and I was left in the worst pain I have ever felt (until my chiropractor knocked me about as if I were an old ragdoll. The pain relief was so exquisite that it has always amazed me that I didn't jump him right there and beg that we marry at the local church that very second). The only time I have felt more physical pain was a month later when my back decided to go on holiday once again and I was left with minimal movement for over two weeks. Again, my chiropractor saved my life. How he has not been knighted is sheer madness. The pain was put down to the whiplash and nobody said too much about it. Well, it's not the most interesting of subjects to be honest. However, recently more and more people have decided to share their opinion on my failing back and seeing as I have not mastered a polite way of saying 'Fuck off, I don't really care', I have had to listen to them.
The problem is that the majority of these people seem to think my large breasts are the route to all my issues. My mother, the woman with only three quarters of her back still in tacked and the woman whom I have inherited my large assists from, has jumped on this annoying band wagon. If one more person tells me to consider a breast reduction, I may cry. And sulk. And I really despise sulking. It's not that I'm irrevocably in love with having ginormous boobs, far from it. The number of dresses I have had to put back on the shelve because I cannot even squeeze one breast into their allotted 'boobie' space is astronomical. I have even suffered many an insult which I mentioned in 'My Boobies and me...' . I don't wear Jordan-esk outfits to thrust my breasts upon the world, as I have frequently stated, 'I have cleavage in a polo neck', so why would I want to spend my entire evening on 'boob watch' ensuring my large breasts are not popping out of my top to say hello? I find covering up to be far sexier than having all on show anyway. So if I don't display them for all to see, why am I so opposed to a breast reduction?
I, of course, don't really believe that my boobs are my problem, otherwise perhaps I would consider this drastic operation. Or would I? Have I let myself become defined by my breasts? Are my breasts bigger than me, so to speak? Do I really value my boobs more highly than my back? It's hard to be sure.
I find it difficult to explain. My aunt, whose parents hail from Nigeria, although married to my uncle has kept her maiden name. Why? Because, she says, that she has been through such a lot with it that she doesn't want to be without it. It's quite a tongue twister to say when you first hear it and she often recalls how she has spent the majority of her life trying to teach people how to pronounce it properly. As well as all the torment she has had to face from being 'different'. Her name by no way defines her but she wouldn't be the person she is now without it. This reflects my views exactly. My breasts are, in no way who I am as a person, but I wouldn't be who I am without them. I have been 'big breasted' for sixteen years of my life and I'm not sure I would know how to be me if they weren't there. They are so much a part of who I am that my best friends at Secondary School changed my name from 'Josephine' to 'Jugsaphine'. This was shortened to 'Jugsy' and Jugsy I was for many years. I am still in The Jolly One's phone as Jugsaphine and she tells me it makes her smile every time she sees it. The Jolly One aside though, Thank the Lord above the name has died out, however, I still look back and smile. No one used the nickname in malice and perhaps my innocence at that age rendered the name even funnier, who knows.
Having large breasts can be fun, it can be aggravating, it can be scary (when the wrong man takes an interest) and it is most definitely expensive (you look through the Bravissimo catalogue and tell me my bras cost the same as a wee A cup bra from M&S. As well as the fact that my bras last on average 6 months to a year, where as a friend recently showed me her 'lucky' bra that she's had since she was 18. I hate her), however, my breasts are part of me and until I'm told conclusively that my breasts are damaging my back, I will not put myself through unnecessary surgery and my boobs are staying exactly the way they are. If they are the reason my back sometimes plays dead then I will face up to the fact that they are to be no more, but until that day comes I will continue to defend the comments that come flying my way with witty rebuttals and sarcastic reply's and I will enjoy every minute of it. It's who I am and that is that.
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