The Great Deflation


I’m not a huge fan of my boobs. They are actually very frustrating to have around. I’ve never been one of those girls who flaunts her chest, even though I have one hell of a chest to flaunt. I just… hate them. When I was younger, I actually asked my mom if I could get them removed or reduced. She told me to shut the fuck up, and be happy that I even had boobs to hate. Like that talk some parents have with their kids about people in Africa not having enough food to eat? My mom had to have the “some girls don’t have boobs” talk with me. And even after that talk, I didn’t care. I still fucking hated them. Because they aren’t the cute little ones that could go without a bra and not scare anyone–they’re the ones that are literally painful when you have to run, or jog, or even… walk fast. They have a mind of their own. They require 2 or 3 sports bras when I’m working out (twice a year). They go where they want, and show themselves without permission. And in a cold room, it’s not some crazy sexy scene like in KingPin… it’s more like… a cross-eyed homeless person with schizophrenia trying to breath underwater. Just an embarrassment to their creator.


When I had kids, of course I didn’t want to be a complete asshole, so I breastfed my babies. It came easy, as every nurse felt the need to tell me, “you were built to breastfeed!” or “well you’ve certainly got the anatomy!” Yeah. that’s a flattering statement. Like, “Wow! You could feed people with those things!” It’s not quite a compliment. But one thing they could have told me, instead of all that bullcrap about closeness and bonding… I think maybe somebody along the way could have mentioned ‘The Great Deflation.’ Nobody said a fucking word about, “Well you can kiss those tig’o’bitties goodbye!”

It happens in a flash. You think to yourself, “We’re coming up on one year! Time to start introducing cows milk and–I FINALLY get my boobs back!”  You spend countless nights mostly awake for a fucking year. And the reward for your hardcore long-term insomnia? A set of half full water balloons that found their way to your chest, and glued down. It’s horseshit. They just… go flat. And there’s no workout on the planet that can bring them back. So, after three kids, all breastfed for a year, I’m now re-thinking the whole “getting them removed” notion…. and I’m finally coming to a place of understanding for all those women with boob jobs. I know, a lot of them are just vapid nasties who like the attention that comes with looking ridiculous and slutty, but some of those boob jobs are a woman’s gift to herself for all the crap she went through to do something good for her kid(s). Because GAWD knows, nobody else is chomping at the bit to gift mom up for that hard work she did, thanklessly. I mean, a macaroni necklace just doesn’t cut it. 52 glued on pieces of construction paper… well I could crumple them up and use them for stuffing… but then I’d be one really mean bitch. So I’m not saying I’m gonna go out tomorrow and fill ’em with saline, but now I understand why some women do it. Because it’s depressing to put on a friggin bra now. If they happen to Janet Jackson their way out into the world, I’d feel like I’d owe an apology to anybody who got an eyeful. Like I’d need to pay for, at the very east, their first session with a shrink.90ff74ee7cd84d910f23baa7eadf4e94

So now, when you see that big fake-breasted 45 year old with 5 kids walking through Walmart, don’t judge. She may have spent all her sanity earning those puppies. Let her walk proud. She may be half-plastic, but she’s happy. And her boobs are in a better place now… literally.


This Might be Awkward…

So a friend of mine suggested I start writing a blog, and I believe she’s onto something! I have never written a blog before.. so I am a certified, DARE I SAY IT, drumroll please:-:-:-:-:-: Blog Virgin! So please, let’s go slow. Wow. It’s that small… huh? Oh I don’t care, let’s do it! This is so exciting! I don’t even know what to write about! I guess it can be anything, right? Well since we are taking it slow, I guess I’ll start with a mild topic, one that’s not too provocative.

Let’s talk boob sweat. Don’t get boob sweat? Sit down, and shut up, I don’t even want to hear it. Boob sweat is the absolute worst. Ever have boob sweat during a job interview, and the interviewer asked if you were ok? Yeah me neither, but my god that would be fucking hilarious. But seriously you guys, for us ladies who are well endowed, it’s the pits. HA. Cuz pits sweat too! HA. Sorry, I’ll keep those little comments to myself from now on. Thanks for letting that one slide… But let’s not be sexist. Boob sweat affects men as well as women, and let me tell you… a little man-boob sweat really gets me going! When it makes those smiley face markings on a dark colored shirt of a well rounded man… WHEW! Stand back, he’s mine, I’ll fight to the death for it. It’s almost too much sexy to talk about.

And speaking of sexy, how about those fabulous pits I spoke of earlier? Yes. I sweat out mah pits. Sometimes profusely. In uncomfortable situations. In non-uncomfortable situations. In most situations. At the grocery store. When I pick up my kid from school. Those good ole sweaty pits. There to make me feel confident. Whenever I need a boost, I just sort through my closet for my worst pit-stained shirt, and… I hold it. I hold it long, and hard. Because as a woman, I need confidence to face my goldfish-cracker-kind-of-life. My diapers-and-wipes-are-evil-and-expensive-kind-of-life. My what-is-that-smell-fuck-it-I’ll-clean-it-tomorrow-kind-of-life. That confidence gets me through the morning, when I can’t for the life of me explain calmly to my 7 year old son that no, he cannot wear those pants from when he was 5 because he looks ridiculous and no son of mine is walking out the door looking like a 1980’s nerd child. I did enough of that for probably 3 generations after me. That confidence is important when my two year old swears up and down that she did not stick a marker in her mouth, even though her mouth and hands are as green as a fucking leprechaun. That confidence helps me through the rough weather of having to borrow my husbands clothes because I am way too lazy to do laundry this week. Fuck it. There’s no baby puke stains or smells, I’m ready for public interactions!

And what kind of virgin blogger would I be if I didn’t talk about poop? Did you know that a human being who only weighs 14 pounds can poop out approximately 82 pounds of poop per day? Swear-ta-gawd. Changing diapers seems to be a way of life for me lately, the endless mountain of little white bulges climbing out of an almost-full trashcan… every other day. It’s insanity. Poop everywhere. Thinking about having kids? Put some poop on your arm. Leave it there until you completely forget about it, and then wait for somebody you do not know to point it out to you. See? Get some pit stains, you’ll feel the confidence kick back in. Cuz… kids are awesome.  Have some now.

Alrighty. I guess I should wrap it up. I feel pretty good! I feel like we did something here! Like, we know each other a little too well! That’s a great start in my opinion. See you next time!

–That Was Awkward–