“Outer beauty attracts but inner beauty captivates.” –Kate Angell

Greetings Dear Ones!

You know when I miss a week or two of blogging that it’s never that I didn’t have something about which to write—it’s that all the things I will one day write about were busy stinging me, running me over, needing to be shorn, escaping their fencing, needing fifty yards of glitter hemmed on a machine whose needles keep breaking… you know the deal! Or, perhaps I was just on all fours, kneeling in the spinach patch, eating it as fast as it can grow out of the garden (it’s that good!). Life gets hectic; stories come faster than pens and a gal’s gotta eat!

Last week an absolutely gorgeous woman came into the shop and gave me full permission to quote her here. She is exactly the kind of septuagenarian I hope to be one day. She has wickedly merry eyes and a smile that is like a twenty percent tip—you instantly feel richer just to see it. She was getting a dress altered for her grandson’s upcoming wedding.

“Do you think I look too much like a hippy if I don’t wear a bra?” she asked, clutching at the front of her gown. “I fell and cracked a rib last week and it’s right where my bra strap goes so the doctor told me not to wear a bra for six weeks, or until it stops hurting.”

I’m not entirely sure what her definition of “hippy” looks like these days. She had no flowers braided in her short bob of hair; she was wearing sensible, laced, orthodic shoes; and there were no acoustic guitars present. I assured her that she looked fine and proceeded with the fitting. She remained focused on her chest.

“I just don’t know what I am supposed to do with my boobs for the next six weeks!” she said with an air of bemused vexation. “I feel like I am hanging out all over the place. What? Am I supposed to throw them over my shoulder?”

“Like a continental soldier…” hummed Prudence privately to herself.

“Tuck them in my waistband?” The lady gave a snort that almost became a laugh and then pressed her hand to her side and winced. Cracked ribs are no fun.

Our bodies get used to clothing for support. I remember a woman a few years back who was unable to wear her customary girdle, who felt like her organs were falling out. She could hardly bear the sensation. The woman went on, talking about her breasts:

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain about them. They did help me find a good man and feed seven of his children.”

The part of me that remains Curious was suddenly at attention. WHAaat? How? How, that part wanted to know, did you use boobs to find a good man? Do yours have a special light-up feature that enables one to search darkened caves for good men? (I assume that is where they hide.) Are they like flares you send up by the side of the road? One might consider that if you are using standard-issue boobs to find men, you might not find the Right Sort of men. Much better to try Wit, or hand-knit woolens to lure them… (The Good Ones always appreciate the value of homemade socks with well-turned heels.) I don’t know why, but this puts me in mind of my friend who was trying to trap whatever was killing her chickens. She kept (humanely) trapping her own cats until the day she used peanut butter sandwiches for bait and caught three adult raccoons. Suddenly, I am imagining my dear customer, somewhere in the jungles of Borneo, setting her boobs in a trap (Wait! I’m pretty sure that is the living definition of a Bra, is it not?) so that she can hunt and capture a Good Man (as opposed to a cat).(Though there are definitely those who might prefer a cat! In which case, skip the peanut butter.)

To find a Good Man who happened to have seven children with him, now that’s a lucky find! Did he have more than seven? Did she roll those boobs out like a fire-hose and could only reach the first seven? Usually, when one meets a Good Man with seven children, one has more need of an acoustic guitar, clothing made from draperies, and a working knowledge of Solfege than mammary glands, but who am I to question her? There was so much that Curious Me wanted to ask but Wise Me didn’t. “Too bad she’s no longer lactating,” thought Curious Me, “We sure could have used her super powers during the baby formula shortage!”

I thought about breasts a lot this week, especially after yet another customer came in after undergoing a double mastectomy. She is healing from cancer treatments and doing incredibly well, though none of her summer dresses fit her quite the way her old clothes did. She is wisely “fixing what she can” and letting the rest go. The courage of these women never fails to inspire me—sometimes to tears. We all get used to ourselves in certain ways—the challenge of reorienting ourselves in differently modeled bodies after age or trauma has ravaged the original, gets to the heart of insecurities some of us have carried all our lives about our bodies and what it means to be beautiful.

I’m pretty sure that what makes these women I love beautiful is NOT the fact that there are two lumps of adipose, saline, silicone, or rubberized foam affixed to the front of their bodies. It’s the way their eyes shine when they talk about the things they love to do, the way they glow a little brighter when they talk about those they love, and the way they radiate humor and resilience despite what comes. As a seamster, I can tell you--Bust pads change the way dresses behave, not people.

A person who has raised seven children, a woman who has triumphed in the fight for her life—these are Mighty Women of tremendous inner Beauty, Strength, and Power. They, who have nurtured so many, often at the expense of themselves, deserve every tenderness and dignity we can show them. They are Gorgeous—no matter where their lumps are (or aren’t). To me, they are More Beautiful Still.

That’s all I have to say about that. There are heaps of greasy, raw wool to sort and the bald little sheep in the barn need to be let out to gnaw the dewy morning grass like a middle-aged fool whose spinach is in season.

Be well, my Darlings! I love you SEW much!

Yours aye,

Nancy