If you have any level of discomfort with my boobs, you’re going to want to stop reading now.
I was just reading another mom’s blog, where she details the first time a person put their hands up her shirt. I will, out of mercy, spare you the details of my experience. The point is that I sat there, brain chugging along like a really, really old computer trying to retrieve that file. It’s something that I’m sure I thought I would remember, you know, 4EVR and stuff. Consider also that I was on the slow bus with all the sexy things and it’s not like I was trying to recall something that happened before the Berlin Wall fell or anything. So flashes of boyfriends past flitted by until….BANG, therrrrre it is. Huh. Not real monumental.
I CAN, however, tell you the LAST time someone put their hands up my shirt. Because it was yesterday. And it was not my husband or Matt Damon. Right after Sally asked if there was a baby in my tummy (there is NOT, thank you) she asked if she could feel my chest. And you know, I had to give the kid credit–at least she asked before she thrust both sweaty hands up my T-shirt. This is more than I can say for a guy in high school who took the fact that I was at a drive-in with him (and four other people) to mean that my boobs were communal treats, like the popcorn. I jumped seven feet in the air, nearly upsetting the pickup, and screamed “Are you NUTS?!” We didn’t talk much after that.
Then when I returned from college one summer, someone I had barely known saw me and said “wow, your boobs are bigger than I remember.” Thanks, dude.
Breasts are strange things. Men can’t seem to get enough of them. Women are constantly contending with them, trying to get them to stay, lie down, sit, roll over. Then we have a child and, for many of us, they take on a utilitarian function. They are udders. For a while we cannot fathom how they could be objects of seduction. And believe me, if you’ve ever had to express milk in the bathroom sink because the pump wasn’t around and your baby decided she wasn’t hungry enough for two boobs, your husband also will recoil at this machine formerly known as the Glorious Boob.
I actually used to think my chest was one of my better features. That was before it expanded during the maternal revolution. Some of my friends lamented that their breasts returned to their natural size after they quit nursing. I wish mine had. Those pounds and every other stuck. In case there’s famine and Sally needs to eat me. One of my sisters frequently tells me how lucky I am to be well-endowed. Yep, it’s great being able to take out linebackers with one twist of my ribcage.
There’s no point to this post, in case you were wondering. I just started thinking about it. I hope I like my boobs again someday. Sally does. Before I could bat her hands down, she managed to get a good squeeze and told me that she likes them, they’re squishy.