This post is all about boobs.
If hooters aren’t your bag, so to speak, then there’s nothing for you to see here. Please move along.
To the rest of you, specifically to all my as-yet un-impregnated lady friends, let me say this:
For god’s sake, do not ever take your beautifully perky tits for granted.
Unlike my friend Michael, who will never live down the drunken text he sent that read, “I LUV BIG BOOBIES!” (the backstory involves a film shoot featuring Jennifer Coolidge in a bubble bath), I’ve never been a fan of the giant bazongas. As a (former) B or C cup, medium-sized boobs were always fine with me.
They were manageable. Proportionate. Attractive without being overwhelming. And entirely, delightfully, decorative.
But now that the twins have become, er, functional, well… I’m packing a hell of a lot more cleavage than I’d really care to.
Exhibit A: The photo up above was taken just one week post-baby. Yeah. I know. BAM!
I now understand the complaints of my more buxom friends, who have told tales for years of their dressing room woes that begin something like this: “It was the cutest top ever, and it would have fit perfectly, but my damn boobs got in the way.”
Never having had this particular trouble before, I would always think to myself, “Well, can’t you just squish those puppies in there?”
No. No, you cannot. I know this now.
When your breasts pass a certain cup size, they cease being sweet, bouncy, womanly things and become two gigantic nuisances.
Gone are the days of being able to wander about comfortably bra-less and unsupported. Gone are half of your favorite tops, because your huge new knockers just don’t leave any extra room for your armpits or your collarbone.
Gone, too, are the other half of your shirts, the ones that fit, because those classy, ballerina-style scooped necklines of yore have now become fairly obscene, and whenever you spy yourself in a mirror you seem to hear stripper music playing in the background.
I know that there are plenty of women out there who, when their mommy mammaries began to fill out, were ecstatic and bought out all the low-cut dresses at the maternity store. These women, in my experience, are either former A-cups or have harbored secret fantasies of buying bolt-on Double Ds.
I cannot relate.
When I was about 5 months pregnant and the bosoms really started to take on a life of their own, Bruce saw me in a dress that had previously fit me like a normal person and said, “Damn! Those things are getting kind of intimidating.”
And yes, I know, it’s a glorious thing to have fully functional ta-tas. To be able to feed your young like a proper mammal.
And yes, I have been utterly in awe of the bonding experience, of the woman power feeling of having, within your own body, everything necessary to sustain another life.
But underneath all the soft-focus mom stuff, I’m still me. And I’m totally snickering at my use of “utterly” in the previous paragraph because it sounds like “udder”. *Snort*
In a moment of panic during my 3rd trimester, I gestured to my ever-expanding melons and asked my sister, “These things are gonna go down, right? RIGHT?”
She looked at me with the calm wisdom of having been there and grown those and said,
“Yeah. Sure. They’ll go down. Waaaaay down,” and gestured in a drooping southerly direction.
Awesome. Can’t wait.
-Lo, who has optimistically saved all those B cups.