breasts – The View from a Drawbridge

Do You Get “Heat Rashes”?

No need to suffer in silence.

If you don’t get “heat rashes”, you probably don’t want to read this post. Just sayin’. I’ve debated whether or not to write about this for years, but let’s face it, the world isn’t getting any cooler.

Here’s the thing: I’ve suffered from what I thought were heat rashes for years, and spoke to several doctors about it, some of whom were even gynecologists, and most of them didn’t take the situation seriously. But it was life-altering for me, and not in a good way. This particular condition tends to happen in the warmest, most moist parts of your body, the groin and sometimes the underside of breasts, and therefore people find it very uncomfortable to discuss. Many suffer in silence. I did for the longest time. (Heat rashes that occur elsewhere on your body are probably a different thing, and unfortunately I can’t help you there.)

When you get a really bad flare up of this condition, it feels like sandpaper that has been set afire. Any movement in that area, or any clothes rubbing against it, hurts like the Dickens. It’s truly miserable. As much as the situation had been blown off by various doctors, I assumed I’d have to live with it.

Some gave me very bad advice. Try using talcum powder in those areas. Keep the area as dry and cool as you can. So I’d sit naked, bepowdered, with a fan, or sometimes even an ice pack. And it kind of sort of worked, if I was willing to entirely give up my life and sit like that forever. Tempting. I’d catch up on my reading. But life does go on.

Another doctor suggested Gold Bond Medicated Powder. Not much better. Another suggested Anti Monkey Butt Powder, which is used for chafing. Some people swear by this, and I find that it helps some, too, but it doesn’t solve the problem. It just makes it more tolerable. Another suggested athlete’s foot cream. No help at all.

Finally, I got a doctor to take me seriously, and she told me that what I was calling heat rashes are actually external yeast infections. I didn’t even know you could get them externally. See, I knew it wasn’t normal, and it shouldn’t be something we just tolerate! I knew it!

She said this type of yeast does thrive in hot, moist areas, but just dealing with the heat and moisture isn’t going to get rid of it. I was liking what I was hearing. Then she suggested a book called The Yeast Connection and it’s accompanying cookbook, and I ran home and immediately bought them online. Finally, some hope.

But then I read the book, and I felt like crying. I even blogged about it. If you want to hear about the impossible rules that that book expects you to follow, then read my post entitled “A Failure to Completely Alter My Life”. If you can turn yourself into an entirely different person, then more power to you. But I knew for me it was a set up for failure. I was so discouraged. I don’t come right out and mention yeast infections in that post. I was still too ashamed. That was back in 2019. And things have only gotten hotter and sweatier since then.

I knew there had to be a simpler solution. And I suspected others were quietly suffering like I was. I even missed a few days of work during bad flare ups because it hurt to walk. Something had to change.

Finally I found a nurse practitioner that actually knew what she was talking about and gave me a workable solution.

First and foremost, don’t wear close-fitting or nylon underwear. I wear loose cotton boxers and sports bras now. No elastic down below, no underwires up above.
Second, I keep my nether regions trimmed to reduce heat and sweat retention.
Third, wash those areas with PH Balance Vagisil, not soap.
Fourth, and probably most important, I use Boudreaux’s Butt Paste with Natural Aloe. It’s for diaper rash, but it works for me, because it has zinc in it. The zinc kills off the yeast. At least that’s the conclusion I’ve drawn. (I bet there are plenty of zinc type creams out there that would work just as well. This just happens to be the product I found that I like best.)

For the first time in 20 years, I feel like I’ve got the situation not just reduced to a tolerable level, but also under control. But I’m not a doctor. Your results may vary, and taking my advice is entirely your decision. (I’m also not a butt paste or Vagisil salesman, believe me.) But I’m telling you, you don’t have to live with this embarrassing and uncomfortable condition. And since I struggled so much to get reliable information and to be taken seriously, I thought I might share the news with those who are also struggling.

Our silence on this issue contributes to the suffering. Hence, this post. Having to get this personal kind of makes me squirm. I’m not crazy about the idea of focusing your reading gaze on my nether regions, but I hope my solution works for you. I really do. Good luck.

No. This isn’t me. Photo found on the internet.

Now is the perfect time to stay at home and read a good book. Try mine! http://amzn.to/2mlPVh5

#boobsforBernie

Breastfeeding is such a controversial subject. God knows why. It’s the way nature intended women to feed their babies. It’s been going on for thousands of years. Every other mammal does it. It provides infants with health benefits that can be obtained no other way.

How did we become so prudish as a society that this one act can make a woman the object of ridicule? If it were men who traditionally breastfed their children (And it is biologically possible, by the way) would the public be so horrified?

Why are boobs so taboo? Why are they considered sex objects? Your mom has them. Chances are good that her mammary glands were the first ones you ever came in contact with in one way or another.

Ladies, do you want to shock someone? Grab one of your breasts through your shirt. They’ll actually recoil as if you’d whipped it out for all the world to see. I know, because I’ve tried it. I could touch my elbow or my knee or my head, all of which are semi-circular, and no one would bat an eyelash. But heaven forbid I acknowledge my big old hooters.

So when Bernie Sanders and his wife thanked a woman for breastfeeding at his rally in Cleveland the other day, this photo went viral. And I’m thrilled. This is just more proof that Bernie Sanders is the only rational candidate out there. I guarantee none of the others would have had the courage to take this stand, even though it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Go Bernie!

breastfeeding

Breasts. Do I have your Attention?

Guys, I’ve no doubt that your search engines directed you here and you had high hopes, but move along. There’s nothing to see. This is going to be a frank and unsexual discussion about living with the human mammary gland.

Ladies, we all know that the day to day possession of breasts is not particularly glamorous. They’re there. They make your seatbelt choke your neck. They are often elbowed in elevators. They cause you to lose eye contact with tactless men. And there’s a reason that models tend to have flat chests. Most clothes just do not look good with too much topography.

And I have a theory that the mammogram was invented by a man to torture women. This very necessary test is an unpleasant inconvenience at best, and excruciatingly painful at worst. But it has to be done, because if you think mammograms are bad, try breast cancer some time.

And if you are like me and are overly well endowed, you are the envy of all your flat-chested female friends. I want to shake them. Do you really envy back, neck and shoulder pain, sagging in your later years, having to special order your bras and pay $50.00 for each one? Do you really wish you were constantly sexualized and stared at even on days when you’re not in the mood for it? If I could yank these things off and give them to you, I gladly would.

And before you get breast enhancements, please, please, PLEASE do your homework. Read up on all the horrific health implications, dangers, and complaints. Anyone who tries to tell you this is not a major, life changing surgery is delusional. And any man who tells you he will prefer you with these masses of foreign material in your chest clearly doesn’t love you for who you are, and no amount of silicone is going to change that.

This is one occasion when I’m not including a photo with my blog entry, because all those people whose search engines directed them here for all the wrong reasons do not deserve a cookie.

Coming Out on Tops

The other day I learned about an amazing woman named Moira Johnston who is an advocate for women’s rights and human rights. One of her latest acts is walking topless through Manhattan. Because she can. It’s legal in New York State to do so, you know. Here’s a direct quote from her website: “It is legal for women to go topless anywhere men may do the same in the entire state of New York, since 1992.” Needless to say she draws quite a lot of attention and raises quite a lot of, uh…awareness about this double standard. People stop and take pictures. Some drive the wrong way down one way streets.

I was quite surprised at my own inner turmoil when I first heard about Moira the other day. Part of me thought, “Good for her! Why not?” but another part of me was shocked. So I had to ask myself why. It really is rather silly, this “thing” we have about women’s breasts. What’s the difference? Just a little bit of topography, really. I think the reason women’s breasts are so sexualized in the first place is because we keep them so hidden. The taboo is what turns people on.

We often make fun of cultures that keep their women entirely covered up, because we think it’s as simple as thinking that men can’t control themselves otherwise. Clearly the issue is much more complex than that. We keep ourselves covered, too. It’s so pervasive we don’t even realize it. There’s this unspoken social pressure. Would I have the courage to go topless in Manhattan? No.

And the more I think about it, the more I resent it. Once, when I was 19, I was hiking in the Swiss Alps. It was a warm summer day. The view was spectacular, and there was no one for miles around. All you could hear was the cowbells on the other end of the valley. I decided to hike topless. And I will never forget the feeling of freedom. I haven’t been topless in public since then, and I miss that feeling so much. I take exception to the societal norms that restrict me.

So thank you, Moira, for what you’re doing. I wish I could say it will make a difference. I want it to. But I have my doubts.

Views from my Windows—Part One

One of my first memories of any type of view was the sagging wooden third floor balcony of our shabby tenement apartment. I lived in fear of this view, because every time I stepped out of the house it was a certainty that our neighbor would be lying in wait. She was this loud old Italian lady with the most enormous breasts I had ever seen in my short life, and every time she would see me, she’d chase me down the hall and hug me until I was sure I’d suffocate in her cleavage. I don’t know what terrified me more: that woman, or the idea that that whole ratty building would collapse around us. But with no child support from my father, not one penny, ever, we were lucky to have any type of roof over our heads at all.

From there we moved into what would now be called HUD housing. It was a duplex on a corner lot, and I always assumed the yard was as big as a baseball diamond, because I’d watch my sister play kickball out there on what seemed like a daily basis. Imagine my shock when I came back to see it as an adult and saw it was about 20 feet square at most. But the lilac bush that my mother planted is still there. As an interesting side note, my other sister’s first boyfriend lived in the other half of the duplex. Then, he liked to play the drums along with Beatles records. Now, he’s in prison for serial rape. Go figure.

From there we soared to the pinnacle of my residential life, for my mother remarried. We moved to a mansion, and we each had our own room. The place was called, ironically, Climax Heights, and it looked out upon a sweeping green expanse and towering trees that were perfect for climbing, and a babbling brook down the road which led to an artist enclave where they all grew to know me by name. We had a fireplace and my mother began to smile because she was finally able to get her teeth fixed. What a heavenly period. Granted, my stepfather gave me the creeps, but I was too young to understand why.

It was from there that things went to shit. My stepfather’s boss was relocating to Florida, and told him if we followed, he’d have a job there. So we decided to camp our way from Connecticut and down the coast. About the time we hit Virginia, the boss died, and no one wanted to give a job to a 350 pound old man with questionable intelligence. My stepfather briefly got a job managing a crappy apartment building that was in such a horrible neighborhood that I was not allowed to go outside. Ever. Having been uprooted from the only state I knew, my grades in school plummeted. My view was of the train tracks across the street, and the mattresses had to be burned because they were covered in some form of parasite. Needless to say, that job didn’t last long.

So next we lived in our tent. It was all we had. My view for the next 7 years was the campground, with its ever changing neighbors. To this day I can’t stand baked potatoes, which was sometimes all we had to eat. My mother sent out one last plea to my biological father, but no help was forthcoming from that quarter. So we went on welfare yet again. That’s when I started working. At age 10 I grew and sold houseplants and from that income I was able to buy school clothes. In the mean time I learned, to my everlasting regret, exactly why my stepfather gave me the creeps. Suffice it to say he was a horrible man who stole my childhood, and my ability to feel safe in this world was forever destroyed.

My goal in life after that was to go to college and get away from my stepfather. Just as I was about to do that, my oldest sister, who had joined the Air Force, bought my mother a house. My view from there was the back door of the Seventh Day Adventist Church. I was always confused as to the day of the week, because I’d keep forgetting that they held their services on Saturday. But the library was two blocks away and I had a room with privacy again, and that was all I cared about. And besides, I was about to go to college. Free at last!

To be continued in Part Two….