CJ Hauser has spent hours on her computer looking up breast reduction surgery. What’s holding her back?
Back when I first got my tits, in the fifth grade, I had these ecstatic daydreams in which they were gone. In these reveries, I was running through the tall meadow grasses of my green yard where wild turkeys noisily exploded from their cover, and I was wearing my favourite shirt with the burgundy suns bleach-drizzled across it and it lay completely flat across my chest and I wore no bra and I was barefoot and I could move so fast. I knew this was the age when you could start becoming a version of your future adult self, and this was the version I wanted to be. But the future had already come for me. The future was a set of double-D tits I have hated since the day they arrived.
Breasts was never a word that worked for me. And much like when I realised that I hated being called “Christie” and started going by my mother’s nickname for me, “CJ”, I also, at some point, realised that the indignity of using a word I hated for a part of my own body was a problem within my control to remedy. And so I have thought of my tits, since that time, as my tits, because it’s a word I like. It’s a word full of moxie.
