B is for Breasts Of which ladies have two; Once prized for the function, Now for the view. ~ Robert Paul Smith
The other day I decided to wear a bra that hadn’t seen any use since before Sausage was born. Like all my bras from that era, it was heavily structured — meaning padded. I always bought these bras because as a somewhere-between-A-and-B cup, I needed something to hold out my shirt and give me some shape. Upon trying on this pretty and long-disused undergarment, I found that I fill it out a WHOLE. LOT. BETTER. than I ever used to. I make those B cups my bitches, baby!
Now wicked pleased with myself, I grabbed a long dress to wear to the theater that night — my legs looked crappy, all bug bitten and bruised, so I didn’t want to wear shorts or a shorter skirt. The word décolletage never came to mind.
By the time I was dressed and heading out the door, thisclose to being late for my backstage call, I had realized that my breasts, in that bra and that (more low cut than I had remembered) dress, thought that they were in a Victoria’s Secret ad.
But it was fine. I mean, yeah, the girls were … noticeable … but it wasn’t like they were that huge. I figured that I’d get by.
But by the end of the show, changing back into the dress, I remembered an extra little tidbit of new-mom-boob trivia. My breasts were now full of milk. They had GROWN.
As a matter of fact, they were about ready to burst on out of that pretty, B-cup bra.
And friends started commenting on them.
Holy crap. I had become a walking Barbie doll.
But still. I decided that if I was going to have phenomenal, comment-worthy boobage for a night, I was damn well going to rock it. So I went out for drinks with some friends after the show.
And in the 20-something-hipster filled bar? I GOT CHECKED OUT.
And the hot, 20-something-hipster girls? The ones who weigh 20 pounds less than me and are completely free of spider veins? THEY GLARED AT ME.
So I decided to write a poem about my bosoomas. My titties. My lovely lady lumps.
I had it all composed, but then I fell asleep without writing it down, so here’s a completely different crappy poem that I composed just now.
Oh lovely piles of glands and fat
Which do reside upon my chest;
With moles, and marks, and just one tat,
I feel that now, with you, I’m blessed.
Where once a shallow valley spread,
Since hormones flooded through your veins
And beauty to a purpose wed
A canyon now is my domain
And I find reason to be vain.
Now, I know it won’t last. I know that as soon as I’m done breast-feeding, they’ll shrink back down to their normal size, with none of that pesky perkiness that they used to possess. And I also realize that I’m a grown woman, with talents, skills, and personality, and that my breasts are not a feature of myself on which I should be fixating. But I’m damn well going to enjoy these mommas while I’ve got ‘em.