This is a question for the girls. Do you ever feel strangely aware of your ta-tas? I am writing this to commiserate, not to er… titillate. There will be no pictures posted for public ogling. Eyes uptop sailor, that’s all I have to say to the masculine readers…
But they are a damn nuisance, aren’t they? Breasts: In constant need of support and encouragement, mucking up the works when you want to take a jog or serve coffee without an awkward close encounter. Yet for all their irritating aspects, they do make you feel sort of feminine and special.
In these ways, a good rack is similar to a man.
When I was 14, I was tiny and flat-chested. I had itty bitty buds, which I took pains not to accentuate, because that would have welcomed more derision than attraction. You know that part in ‘Bend it Like Beckham’ when the ample, indian relative is dressing up the younger girl? And she goes, “This will make those mosquito bites look like juicy, juicy mangoes!”
I could so relate to her humiliation.
I used to put balled up socks in my bra to admire the effects in the mirror. And then, rather suddenly, my gazangas came in.
What a mixed blessing. What a pain in the rear. Gone the care-free days when I could just throw on an extra layer and be respectable in public. Certain sort of men who never looked at me before started to look: Namely, people I would dub ‘old dudes’ in my high school lexicon.
(My brother and I had a rather awkward moment at Universal Studios when an aged hottie started hitting on me aggressively in the hotel pool, that is until Bryan screamed at him, loud enough to rouse the lifeguards, “Hey, are you still hitting on my FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SISTER ?!?” I coulda killed him at the time, but now the memory makes me smile.)
Along with these changes came an abrupt end to recreational jumping jacks, and a sort of instinctive horror of jokes that featured mammograms.
One of the worst parts about generous jugs is that the value of masterful bazooms depreciates, rather like a mercedes. The minute you drive those babies off the lot, you begin a struggle with gravity that you will, ultimately, completely and totally lose. What’s the shelf- life on natural buoyancy? How long can a woman reasonably invest in v-necks without fearing spill over? Is it absolutely inevitable that old age will see you rolling these things up, or tying them back like an old bugs- bunny-with-the-unwieldy-ears cartoon?
“Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?”
Please, please, God, no.
I’m almost 32 now, and my billibongs are holding their own, but I’m anxious about the future. My consolation is that men have dangly bits, too, and I’m betting the flesh-flute must get kinda goofy looking as well, when old age sets in. Maybe the true meaning of love is finding someone you can flop your bits with, contentedly.
Meanwhile, though… *squeezes elbows in a bit as I type* I do sorta revel in my bumpies. I have classic cleavage: Old West cleavage… “Well hello Miss Kitty, ma’am…” cleavage. This here is a portable money-clip, and a pretty easy way to win money at a co-ed poker match.
They’re womanly-ish, y’know? Sort of the last remnant of our primordial feminine divinity, as attested by those fertility goddess figurines that have triple breasts, or a torso covered in mammaries. Serene and mysterious, those statues betray no dangling worry about the future, but rather a strange, enchanting confidence best wrought with nipples and granite.
Anyhow, I’m off to dazzle my own Old West gun-slinger, with a little bit of decolletage. If he’s very, very good, I might even pretend I’m Miss Kitty.
Ta ta for now.