This is a post I never thought I’d have to write at this point in my life.
I just don’t feel old enough.
I thought I’d notice the changes to my youthful self later on, when I was old-old and not like just old enough for a child to call me a lady.
I’m not old, I’m young. I’m BASICALLY just a teenager. I swear. I am. But then why are my boobs shrinking and sagging and not looking cute like all the bikini-clad celebs on the Mail Online. HUH HUH?
Growing up, you have this idea that your body will look however you want it to look. And, without sounding like a right frigging naive idiot, I kind of assumed, up until maybe 14 or 15 that my body just would pop into the sort of figure you see plastered across magazines and glossy blogs and celeb websites. I just assumed that, so long as you weren’t eating a sneaky burger and fries for every damn meal of the day, that’s how your body would look.
All neat and toned and gentle curvs and flat tummy and pert little toosh.
I’m not sure there’s enough lols in the world.
I just assumed that everyone older than me whose bodies DIDN’T look like that had done something drastically wrong. Like, eaten a burger and fries for every meal ever.
That, or they’d had kids. Because I wasn’t THAT stupid to not acknowledge that GUESS WHAT, growing a baby in your belly stretches your skin and changes you FOREVER.
But here I am, aged 26 and nearly a quarter, with a body that’s not as ahem, springy, as it used to be.
And it hasn’t even nurtured a baby to full term, it’s just y’know, nurtured a few stuffed crust pizzas and bottles of wine to full term.
I’ve dropped about a cup size and a half on my boobs since the summer, and when I’m not wearing a bra I am overwhelmed by how saggy they feel. I feel disgusted and upset by the fact that, more than ever, I can feel them hanging against my skin.
I can feel them moving and dropping towards the floor when I run down the stairs. I can feel sweat gathering underneath them. I fear for the under-boob skin infections I’m probably about to start harbouring.
I can remember at school hearing this definitely-true fact that if you could hold a pencil under your boob without hands than your boobs were saggy. Real sweet.
I was 16, a D cup and could hold five pencils under each boob.
(Naturally I gave it ago because omg such a fun break from MSN Messenger).
And no, I haven’t given it ago a decade on because I don’t want to force Tesco to sell-out of Crayola colouring pencils this close to Christmas, it’s not fair on the children.
I haven’t lost weight, so it’s not the result of some cute summer bodies are made in the winter attack on my weight, it’s just that my boobs have decided to ditch me and flee to someone hotter and younger who’ll get more use out of them.
And in their place they’ve left me some squidgey skin, which is well bangin’. Like hey, come look at my deflated fun bags, boys.
And it’s not just fast-disappearing breasts, there’s other little details in the way my body looks that have started changing.
When I am bloated and when I am having a ‘fat’ day, my weight used to sit right up on my tummy. Now it sits in the cutely named area that is a ‘gunt’. I AM THAT PERSON.
Like, in my high-waisted skinny jeans and a sweatshirt, I can see this slight bulge that rises upwards from my pubic bone. This is not cool and sassy and sexy. This is not a curve that I’d like to be there plz.
And it’s freaking me out a bit.
I thought I’d have longer.
I thought my ‘young lady’ body would hang around a bit longer. I thought she’d wait until I had babies or started heading towards 40 before she started making so many noticeable changes.
I can no longer get away with eating a pile of beige happiness without falling into a sleepy slump complete with robust bloat and the knowledge that I’ll probably be a pound up the next day because metabolism, what’s metabolism? Is that something from the noughties like Craig David and Two of a Kind?
I’ve never adapted well to any change that is out of my control. It makes me feel wild and flailing and like I can’t grasp onto solid ground around me. And whilst it is true that I could help prolong the body ageing process by hardcore gymming or plastic surgery (the idea of being put under anaesthetic literally makes my nose flare in terror just at writing those words), it is inevitable that my body WILL change.
I just have to appreciate the stories it can tell and the things it has been through. Because me and my tum and thighs and knockers, we’ve been gal pals for a long time now.
We remember the first time a boy said ‘woah, you’ve got the best legs in Littlehampton’. We remember the time a boy said ‘I’ll only go out with her when she grows boobs’. We remember the time our bezzie pal said ‘you’ve got such a good face, it’s just your body that lets you down’.
We remember the time we had an ultrasound to check out our fed-up kidneys, we remember the time we took a day off school to get our belly button pierced because hey cutie and we remember the time we first noticed ghostly white stretch marks appearing on our cute back fat curves like heyyyyy you, what you doing here, we didn’t invite you over.
Me and my lumps and bumps have been on quite THE journey together, and we’ve already gathered quite the collection of short tales to tell.
I can only hope, that no matter how much my body changes and droops and expands and does unpredictable things, it’ll continue to serve me as well as it has done for the past 26 years.
Body, you cause me a hella lot of heartache and insecurity and tears, but when it comes down to it, you and me is for lyf <3