If you believe your life may be lacking that semi-awkward, probably inappropriate, what's certain to be a hilarious conversation, may I suggest the topic of tits?
We were on our way home from church; that's where all side-splitting stories begin, after all.
I don't recall what launched this line of conversation. Perhaps I was trash-talking some woman I saw in church. Not outside the realm of possibility. In fact, right up my alley. Had I begun singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"? Who knows?
Here we were though, in my car, on our way home from Sunday church, talking about breasts.
There are times when I'd like to have a nicer, fuller, rack. Out with my husband, all the other bitches are wearing nice cocktail dresses - losing morsels of their dinner in their cleavage, I'm frantically checking, ensuring my tits don't look like they belong to someone 40 years my senior.
Are they droopy? Are they wrinkled? There's so much space between them, should I paint a rainbow on my chest? Maybe place a leprechaun with a pot of gold near one tit and a happy little cloud near the other? You can paint a landscape between my tits. It's depressing.
I feel as if I should be protecting my mother-in-law's identity. I know she loves me but being associated with me is another thing entirely. Even my own mother will deny ties to me if I do stupid shit. There is a small chance my mother-in-law, or someone she knows will read this. I'd hate for this to be the blog that embarrassed her. I'm pretty adept at screwing shit up.
I struggle to get my boobs into a sports bra as it stands. I can't imagine hoisting big 'uns into and out of an Ace bandage with spandex and added shoulder straps. Fuck that.
Lobster's mom told me that she envied me. She's seen my bras [true story] and would be thrilled to have my size breasts. She's only a few inches away from being able to tuck hers into her belt. I reassured her that even small titties can be sad...so very sad and droopy. We'll get there, back to why she's seen my panties.
For the last couple of weeks, Lobster's mom has been visiting with us. I truly love having her. My home has never seen so many of its repair projects completed. It's a beautiful thing! She's also a marvelous gym companion in the evening.
While I'm gone at work during the day, she has been doing my laundry. I don't ask her to do this, so you all can just chill the fuck out. When I get home though, she's neatly folded all my thong underwear into cute little squares and put them away for me. She's Marie Kondo'd my panties.
I tell her that even with little boobs, you still face troubles; especially if you've had children. For instance, I have enough skin towards the top that I could probably wipe away tears if needed. They're still a nice little handful, but it's the quality of that handful that's questionable.
If my boobs were a lawn ornament, they'd be one of those Christmas inflatables that people leave on their lawn. Not when they're nicely inflated and lit up at night - no. My boobs are the daytime model. The kind that are propped up by a yardstick, waiting for nightfall and someone to turn the air compressor on.
Sometimes I picture little Lego men marching out across my torso carrying toothpicks. They come to a halt under my boobs and sound the trumpets. In synchronicity, they hoist up my girls and wedge the toothpicks under my deflated windsocks. The trumpets sound again and they march off into the vast canvas of my back.
I also need to remember Summer. Heat is a bitch when you've got fun bags. The only time I like to sweat is when it's intentional. The only places I enjoy sweating from are places I know I'm supposed to: my head & sometimes my underarms. Everything else is pretty much trickle down from my head. In NO way do I enjoy sweating underneath my breasts. I don't enjoy excusing myself to the bathroom to mop up my tits. I don't like titty sweat stains either. Not particularly sexy, if you ask me.
Conceivably, small ones aren't that bad.
My husband sent me a lovely photo today with the caption: "Men love these."
So, there you have it, men appreciate anything that resembles a boob. All that really matters is that there are no more than two and the yolks aren't broken. Notice he even added butter pad nipples? Extra points for accuracy.
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