Can You Put Your Tits Away? I’m Trying To Be Married, Here.

I’M BACK! Excited? I’ve been on hiatus and just waiting for inspiration and then today I read  THIS . I decided to do an interpretive blog.

 

Ohmygosh! I said that?! I typed the word “tits”! I can’t even say that word, y’all! When I tell people the title, I whisper “the t-word” as I discreetly point to my sin pillows. Then I feel awful when I suddenly remember that drawing any attention to my body, especially parts like my devil lumps, has the potential to destroy lives!

I think back to my Bible school days, when I learned to be ashamed of my body, like a proper lady. They would teach us about “inappropriate” touching, which was any touch not intended as discipline, even with my own hands! That lesson led to years of turmoil and guilt with regards to things like using toilet paper.

My Dad was such a square. He wouldn’t let me wear anything that was too short, or too tight, or too long, or too loose. I even went to doctor after doctor, hoping someone, anyone would be able to diagnose the cause of the heaving in my bosom. Daddy was always so worried about it, but, sadly, there is little known about this condition, other than it affects near 100% of women with breasts, and there is no treatment or cure, but I digress. Like I was saying, Daddy would veto everything I wore, even if it was brand new, telling me I looked too sexy, and to change. Then that was too sexy and so on and so forth. He would take all my sexy clothes away and keep them in his secret hiding spot in his room. One time I got a pair of stretchy khaki pants. I know! Khaki?! SLUT ALERT! AMIRITE?! Anyways, my Dad took them away immediately. He didn’t even see them on; he just saw khaki and called me harlot and snatched them away. I snuck in his room and stole them back and wore them to school the next day. After walking to class and having three (cough) gentlemen whistle at me and say perverse things like, “Daaaaaaaaamn girl”,  I realized that I had caused those young men, my peers, to have impure, lustful thoughts. That’s when I realized that my daddy had good reason for taking those pants. I mean, what if one of those boys, incited with lust because of my tight, camel colored pants, had lost control and raped me? That would have been my fault! What was I thinking? I knew I was lucky. What’s worse, is one of those boys, a freshman, had a girlfriend. They broke up our junior year and I’ve never gotten over the guilt that my khaki audacity was the ultimate cause of that relationship’s demise.

My point is, I’m not writing this to tell teenage girls to respect themselves and their bodies. I mean, everybody is spreading that message, and it’s important and all, but no one is actually talking about HOW to instill this in our girls. I think it is obvious that, if we want to teach young girls and women self-respect and dignity, we need to start with instilling shame. If you start early, girls will internalize these values, learning to hate and fear their bodies, which will soon translate into them shaming and judging their peers, which is sure to continue on into adulthood and beyond.

I’m getting off track. What I’m saying is, I’m not writing to say you shouldn’t post pics of you in a bikini at the beach, even though there are plenty of modest options for a self-respecting lady spending a day at the beach, like sweat pants and a nice oversized vacation Bible school t-shirt.

All I’m saying  is, I am married. When we stood before  God, my husband and I cemented our commitment. We took vows, for Pete’s sake. Yet here we are today, and I am fighting for our marriage, fighting for our family, fighting for our lives! This isn’t because we can’t keep our vows, it’s because all of you are disregarding them! So, if you don’t mind, STOP SHOWING MY HUSBAND YOUR TITS!

If I was thin, with a flat stomach and perky ta-tas, I’d totally be taking pics of myself in every state of undress, practically NAKED even, and showing them to everyone with a set of eyes or internet access. But I’m NOT, so I CAN’T! I have to wear a bathing suit/dress combination and there is no instagram filter that will make me not hate my body, okay?!

So, what I’m saying is, I don’t blame you for having the confidence to wear that string bikini. I think it is great that you are so self-assured that you even posted a picture so we can all see your perfectly toned body, clad only in a bikini. You are rocking that bikini too, girl! You look amazing! If I had your body, I’d live in a bikini all day, errrrday! It would be my Christmas card!  If I could make one request, though, I’d appreciate it if you could take a cue from me and find a way to replace a heaping helping of your confidence with some normal, healthy, crippling insecurity, which would prevent you from, at minimum, sharing your bikini pictures on social media, if not keep you from ever being seen in public in one ever again. See? I’m not unreasonable!

I am not judging! Not at all. I just want you to stop trying to destroy my marriage and break up my family.

When I log onto social media, I just scroll through and scroll through, until something catches my attention. Most times, it is one of you in a bikini or skimpy clothes, so I zoom in and zoom in and zoom in and–damn–that is as far as my zoom works? I thought the Ipad was supposed to be top of the line, but I don’t see how they got that reputation when the zoom capabilities could only be rivaled by an etch a sketch.

Mostly, I’m just examining your picture from every angle, at full zoom, piece by piece, praying, “please, God, I just need to find a stretch mark or a dimple to validate my hangups and insecurities. Amen” . Then I just scroll on and–you know–lather, rinse, repeat.

So, as you can see, I’m cool. Your pictures don’t hurt me. Want to know who you’re hurting? My husband. That’s who. You see, he is just a man. Like all men, he lacks the emotional capacity that is required for certain abilities, like exercising self-control or recognizing women as human beings. For men, the information processes do not continue past visualization. I read somewhere that the gravitational pull on the peen and balls is what is responsible for this significant difference between men and women, but I’m sure they teach that in biology or something.   So, with that knowledge, you should know that when my husband sees those images of you, with your long, tan legs and flat, toned stomach, it is etched in his memory indefinitely. I can forget your picture and move on. He doesn’t have that luxury. His eyes see it and, if his eyes like it, those eyes will store it in a spank bank (whatever that is–some medical term, I guess, but it sounds horrible) and will show it to him again and again.

Obviously, I’m not saying this is your fault! It absolutely isn’t. It’s also not my husband’s fault, though. My man diverts his eyes at ninja speed when he sees such images appear on his social media feed, posted by those that he voluntarily follows. I know some of you will say, “why doesn’t he just unfollow or hide people he doesn’t want on his feed”, but obviously those that would ask that question forget that he is a MAN. Tell that to his EYES! Okay? Think of it this way. My husband does not want to see your taut body and your full perky breasts, contained only by a minuscule piece of fabric and string. He turns away. You post another one. He tries not to see it but you keep giving him more to see, which he’ll never unsee! You’ve caused him, against his will and amid his protest, to SIN! You caused him to sin in his mind, in his heart, and, probably, in his hand. I’ll be glad when the day comes when I can call to report my husband being EYE RAPED again and they don’t laugh, hang up on me, fine me, or, especially, take me for another 72 hour hold. I hate those. This is serious and all of you are just getting away with it!
I remember Memorial Day, my feeds were inundated with barely covered, perfect breasts and dimple-less ass cheeks. I vaguely remember giving him a subtle heads up as I hurried out the door. It’s summertime! Beware of  Satan’s whores that rely on Instagram to tempt you to sin. They are blowing it up with their half-naked pictures with different filters. That was all it took. From that point on, for a couple of weeks or so, he isolated himself in the bathroom or the bedroom. Protecting his heart. Protecting his eyes. Evidently, he replaced that time which he’d have spent on social media with a new-found attention to skin care, because he was using so much lotion during that time.
I know you’re not destroying my life on purpose. Of course! I know that! COME ON! I’m not crazy! You’re misunderstanding me! So, if you don’t mind staying in my share circle a little longer, there is one more thing.

I don’t have any noticeable amount of self-esteem. Since my puritanical upbringing meant that I was objectified from an early age, resulting in me objectifying myself,  I was firmly instilled with the understanding that my body was not really mine. My body was for men, and my choices concerning it were two-fold: conceal it, covered away, as a gift for my future husband, or flaunt it, as a weapon, causing men to lust, and hope I’m lucky enough to avoid being raped. Since “love”, for men, has no emotional basis, only visual, the very site of your newest photo upload could be grounds for divorce. I’ve carried and birthed our child, so I have some stretch marks and jiggly parts and if my husband notices the difference, it’s curtains because sex is all I can bring to the table! Oh, I know! He’ll just love me for who I am as a person. SNORT! Yeah! Sure! Okay!

When he gets in our bed and he wraps his arms around me and says he loves me, I know what is really going on! I’m not stupid! I saw your picture with your bare shoulders and legs that go all the way up to your vagina. I know he couldn’t possibly love me after seeing that, and comparing it with my flappy arms, and stretch marks or my new-found ability to hold 3 pencils under my breast! I know his eyes saw your picture and he is just trying to stifle his gag reflex long enough to gain access into my penis cozy.

That point in the day inevitably arrives, where we end up having the same conversation every other married couple eventually has, I assume. I’m screaming, crying and telling him, “I’m ugly and you hate me, don’t you! You’re in love with Carol, aren’t you? Just say it! I saw you liked her pool picture on Instagram. DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND OUT? Why don’t you love your family?”, and he’s looking all innocent and confused, denying it, trying to hug me and say he loves me and he’d never leave me and lots of other bullshit to try to appease me, probably just hoping to buy time until he can  hide money in a Swiss account and buy Carol and him a new house.

So, look. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: I’m NOT judging you! That should be obvious! I get it! You just want to share your life through words and pictures with friends and family. You want to take that group picture that includes you, wearing your new *modest* triangle string bikini at the lake to share now and, also, have to look back at, years down the road.

Read my lips: NO JUDGEMENT HERE!

But, if you have a shred of decency, you will get your tits out of my marriage! All I’m asking is that you respect that we are unwilling to modify, limit or eliminate our social media interactions or access based on what is in the best interest of my mental health or our marriage. That is selfish and unreasonable for you to suggest such a thing. The problem is all of you, shoving your teardrop shaped  titskis all up in my poor husband’s face, which, might I add, has been occurring ever since we chose to follow you! Coincidence? I think not. We just want to keep our hearts and minds pure and live happily ever after, but how are we supposed to do that if  you won’t stop being thinner or fitter, with better, perkier boobs than me all while having a social media life? IT’S MY MARRIAGE AT STAKE, DICK! You are trying to take my husband away. You are taking a father from his daughter! Think about me!

Look in the mirror. Look at your social media posts. Ask yourself: Are you an eye rapist?

No judgment. Blessings and love. You whores probably just need to know someone cares. I’ll ask around.