lowercase-b, boobs.

Before we get started, children, pick up your pencils. I'm going to need you all to complete a short questionnaire.

Are you:

A. My father

B. My brother

C. One of my in-laws

D. One of my male co-workers

E. Prudence McPrude

F. None of the above


If you selected F, read on. If you selected A through E, I must warn you that reading any further could result in permanent blindness, post-traumatic stress disorder, nightmare-driven panic attacks or all of the above. Proceed with extreme caution.


(Also, don't let the subject matter fool you. You won't like this nearly as much as you might think.)

...

Anecdote! I was visiting my new-mom friend a few weeks ago. Her babe was maybe 2 months old at the time. When the men left the room, she grabbed my arm (hard) and gave me what she thought was super helpful advice for a soon-to-be (not that soon) mom: "YOUR BOOBS WILL NEVER LOOK GOOD AGAIN."

Wait.

Alright, I knew about the body-morphing and the tearing and the episiotomy and the after-birth and the pain and all of the other "miracles" of child birth. I also knew about the temporary huge boobs. I was looking forward to having a cup (or two?) promotion while pregnant, but I guess I'm romanticizing it? I figured I'd bounce back. I *gulp* won't?

I mean, I'm not delusional enough to think I'll be one of those mini French women with the little basketball up front. Trés petite! Nor will I fit back into my skinny jeans the very next day. Nope, I will most definitely be a HOUSE. I'm not a "big girl" necessarily, but I'm tall and I like to eat. Add: "eating for two" and irrational preggers cravings, and well, watch out. The Japanese make movies about these things. 

Rawr! I will eat your skyscraper!

But yeah, boobs.

Here's why I'm concerned: I'm 33 but I have the boobs of a 20-year-old. The rest of my body is aging appropriately, but my boobs! It's because they're little, though. 

Whatever, I'm not gonna make excuses about liking myself! I deserve this strut, so let me. Ladies, we don't say enough good things about ourselves. (Can I get an amen up in hurr?!)

I absolutely hated (hated!) being tall and meager-chested during high school. It was (according to my fragile, irrational teen brain) the absolute worst punishment Mother Nature could have ever bestowed. Dramz! TV and fragrance ads told me that men like big boobs and tiny women. I conveniently ignored that fact that I had essentially a runway-model body (back then, people, BACK THEN). It was boyish and willowy no matter how many calories I crammed in my face. Foot-long, please, extra mayo. Oh, to have that metabolism again! Stupid, stupid girl. So many years wasted on insecurity and slouching and the grunge era. 

I piled on almost 30 pounds since the 9th grade. 30! PURE MUSCLE, OBVIOUSLY *ahem*. My doctor says I'm still at the "low-to-average end of normal for my height". However, the smug trainer at my gym pinched my arm flab with that cold blubber-measuring machine and proclaimed my body fat percentage to be higher than normal. Betch. The extra fat wasn't kind to my face or thighs, but it may have helped in the boob department. OK, they didn't actually grow, but fat from my armpits can double as extra bra-filler. Resourceful.

I love my height now. And my small boobs (avec extra armpit-fat help). It took me way too long to realize that these are highly coveted qualities. Being a typical never-satisfied woman, I, of course, have found new things to hate: I scrutinize pores, poke at fatty thighs, complain about my hair, frown at my less-than-satisfactory derriere in the double-mirror. Sigh.

So let me have this one, OK? 

[ this is all you get, puppies. alex is currently hovering, threatening to post his "junk" on Facebook ]

I think I have a point here, though. I do, I do! Mostly I started this post as a result of being traumatized by the imminent choice: kids or good boobs. I pick kids, but I will make them pay me back via years of chores. WINKY FACE! (One day they will read this, gawd help me, because the internet is FOREVER!) Oh yeah, a point: what I realized, while having self-centered thoughts as my momma friend struggled with "latching" under her nursing cape, was that I need to relish this (possibly brief) burst of good body image. I should probably just walk around naked and wear things that are body/age-inappropriate, yeah? Or take off my shirt at an LMFAO show (yes, I did that).

Or, I could just turn my epiphany into a PSA and soak up some good karma. Small-boobed? Here's a pep-talk about your girls, girls:

1. Guys like boobs. Not just big boobs. All boobs. BOOBS.
2. You won't sag. I mean maybe a little, but really where is an A cup gonna go, sister?
3. You can wear a LOT of things that other girls can't. Especially things that don't require bras. I've worn bandanas as shirts, band-aids instead of bras. Do it.
4. But bras? Still your friend sometimes. 4 words you need to know: Victoria's. Secret. Push. Up.

[ wear this, because you CAN // topshop $40 ]

I could have used a guardian angel when I was 14. Say, a foul-mouthed 33-year-old version of myself from the future? I'm sure I am somehow a better person for the "suffering", though.

We're almost expected as women to tear ourselves (and each other) apart but I kinda think I'm quitting that club. I'll probably still ask "does this make me look fat?" and wish my double chin was more of a single, but I refuse to be afraid to celebrate/flaunt what I actually love about myself.

Boobs.

 [ Header photo: Nasty Gal // Anthropologie // Sorcery on Etsy ]

crazy for feelings

I think I suffered a massive panic attack at my desk today.

"Heart attack!!" also crossed my mind. 

Something you should know before worrying: I'm prone to melodrama. Clearly it's the best idea to immediately self-diagnose a confusing chest-pain/anxiety-feeling as something way more serious than it probably is. Remember this very important equation: I have an internet connection = I am a medical expert.

Maths!

So, no panic/heart attack. Really, it's likely a combination of PMS, exhaustion and post-superbowl heartburn (even the salad contained Fritos!). The perfect storm.

It's an angry cocktail, especially mixed with my mini life-crisis episodes of late. I can usually handle/dismiss my internal crazy:

"I'm so aimless. Yay, this is the best thing ever!!! What am I DOING with my life? Am I happy? Let's move to Oregon? No, Peru. LET'S GO DANCING! I should be going to yoga again. Do you think it's an ulcer? I miss my sister. OMG, let's craft! I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR." 

Same day here, people. Same day.

I'm not trying to date you, so it's pretty safe to bring my full crazy to the table.

(I'm also prone to exaggeration. So please still be my friend. I'm normal. Sort of. And nice. Don't leave.)

But yeah, I can laugh at myself. Really well. Self-deprecation is kinda my shtick. Otherwise, I'd never survive, err, me. I can also (mostly) brush away those fleeting desires to do impulsive (annnnd probably destructive) things. Because that's what adults are supposed to do, right? 

Today, though, I let the crazy own me a bit. I felt sad and/or panicked and/or confused. You know, because of the lady business and the heart-stopping greasy food and the sleep-deprivation. 

I'll be fine. Somehow hubby is actually being super-duper, even though I'm an exasperating human. He's NOT rolling his eyes (he should be). Instead he picked up Indian take-out (great for heartburn, of course) and we watched a movie of my picking (Enchanted!). "Everyone has a right to feel sad sometimes." Cute, yeah? I don't deserve sympathy. I'm usually 95% responsible for my own repeated unravelings. I'll generously only place 5% of the blame on genetics: the women in my family are nuts. In a good way. The very, very best way. Like me, right?

(Ugh. "Unraveling" is so over-the-top. Sheesh.)

OK, so why am I at all desirable and how did I actually manage to snag and marry a non-creep? These big purple bruises on my emotional makeup are pretty rare these days and I'm usually a glass-half-full kinda girl (full! overflowing!). I'll probably be there again tomorrow. Probably I should wear something ridiculous so that the work-nerds harass me. Because that's a pretty fun time.

High highs, low (infrequent) lows. I guess I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Thrills!

I already feel so much better. Thanks, blog. 

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P.S. if you managed to actually feel sorry for me somehow (don't), I'd like to point out that this was my weekend: