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.
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.