I Don’t Want the Title to be Titties

Editor’s Note: Karen Louque first published this post on her own blog karensporch.

Karen Louque has been sharing straight-up womanly wisdom on her blog “Karen’s Porch” for the last ten years. The mother of five from Baton Rouge, La., uses blogging as a medium to chronicle her everyday encounters, musing on love, aging and being a woman. When you’re looking for some inspiration and empowerment, whatever walk of life you’re in, her witty writing is worth a read.

Below is an entry from Karen’s Porch

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I Don’t Want the Title to be Titties

I have no idea what’s it’s like to be you. I try in small moments during the day to be empathetic. Mainly it’s to counter my judgements about the people I interact with at work. But mostly, all day, everyday, every moment, ALL DAY, I am me. I have things swirling around in my head, and if you are one of my five blogger fans (you know who you are), you know that I write to organize this shit. And so, this morning I have my boobs and gray hair, the meaning of life (aka Are You serious, God?), my liver, and a thousand other things that keep popping up. So I will try to get some of these in order.

I was always thought of as “skinny” growing up. It wasn’t a compliment. Oh sure, girls would always say they were jealous of my ability to eat so much with no apparent consequence, but guys didn’t give a crap about the fact that I could eat quarter pounders with cheese. They liked boobs.

Titties, folks.

And my daddy, who I miss every day of my life, didn’t help. From an early age I only remember his pointing out beautiful women on TV or in public by their breasts. The bigger the better. Or prettier, in my young mind. So I, being me, fantasized about having the biggest and the best. I was very entertaining. I used to walk in to a room at 9 years old, or the softball dugout, or anywhere, with soft balls in my shirt. Socks, tennis balls, you name it.  I drew beautiful women with cleavage. I could not wait to have them. And then puberty came. And everybody started getting them. Everyone but me. I wore a training bra (wtf) just to have the cool strap showing through my shirt. But the boobies did not come. I adjusted, of course, but I always wanted them. And there was no way in hell I would have gotten implants. That would have been surrendering. Screw that. So I carried on with small boobs and found out you could have a good butt and get by. And I nursed my children for a cumulative decade, so eat me, society.

And then I turned 50. And kids, my breasts are growing. Not leaps and bounds, but slightly. I can make that cool little line of cleavage if I try. And I will. I have gone my whole life without the pleasure of being objectified for my chest. And I have no idea how much time I have. I feel like it’s a miracle, and I’m not wasting a second. So brace yourselves. I am working these girls. And I won’t even pretend to be offended. I won’t say, “Hey, I’m up here.” It’s ok. You can look.

Which brings me to my head. Or my hair. I am finally going gray. For real. I am happier every day that I become my real hair self. Like implants would have been, I have always felt like I was giving in by dyeing my hair. Like I was conforming to a standard of beauty that wasn’t mine. So I am free.  Sticking it to the man. And in my mind, pretty.

universe

I was going to touch on the meaning of life, but that’s pretty big. Bigger than my boobs.  I’m not sure what to say. I have more questions than answers, and I am kind of tired of the search. So today, I will look inside for meaning. I will love me and try to shine that light to the ones that I am with. I want to portray some hope to my grandchildren that life is not futile. That we are here to experience love and joy. That we can experience love and joy. That the crying is for a greater reason. That life is more than boobs and hair. But boobs and hair are fun. And fun is good. I work a double today at JBBQ. My life is good. I will write again soon. About my liver. I miss this.