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 ]

One of those moods.

I couldn't muster the interest/energy/enthusiasm for writing a complete blog at any point in the past week, so I'm amalgamating multiple drafts:

Friday:

I usually refrain from "language" on this blog due to the heavy mom-content in my readership. But this is surely an exception. 

Phone call: there is news.

FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Just ugly-sobbed on the phone with my Dad. Manic-daughter stuff is usually Mom's territory but she was in the hot tub.

Saturday:

Speechless.

Sunday:

Blurry.

Monday:

I shouldn't listen to sad music when I'm bummed. It's Monday. It's raining. The current state of things in the outer world are mimicking my inner world. Prophetic fallacy.

I should resume my short-lived stint as a (hobby) poet. Teenage angst flashbacks.

OK, taking things into perspective: I have my health. No one is dying. Love is blooming (still). I adore my job. I'm being social. Life is beautiful.

But still. I have news. The worst part is that the way I deal with crappy things is to blab about them incessantly. Oversharing is super-cathartic. And I CAN'T. Arrrgh. I will be able to share very, very soon, but for now: zippity-do-dah.

Tuesday:

Feeling better today. Flights booked for my work/personal trip in January (and Alex is joining me for part of it!) so I have something fun to anticipate. Yay!

You know I'm a glass-half-full kind of girl and I always bounce back. Turning anger and frustration into positive productivity right now. OK, you want to kill me. Dawn thinks I'm preggers. Or moving. And my secrecy (my RARE secrecy) is killing her. These are not my guts to spill, though. They are the guts of another, and I have vowed to carefully guard them until the appropriate time. Hurry up!!!

Look: Tuesday = much better than Monday. Plus it's sunny. And NOT Monday. Already things are looking up-up-up!

Wednesday:

I think I have a cold from biking for half an hour in the pouring rain. I know that this is not actually possible: you get sick from germs, not inclement weather. But again, maybe I'm just having a psychic connection to the weather.

Heard that the stupid secret is spreading around more than it should be. But it won't be traced back to me. Nope. Unless my Dad takes a notion and decides to open a Twitter account and take on the gossip-mill as a hobby. Nah, I get my big mouth from my Mom.

Still kind of hoping this has been a week-long dream.

Nope.

Thursday:

Realized that my mood/lethargy can be mostly blamed on PMS. Although I'm pretty gutted about the incident-that-will-not-be-named, I think girl-problems are really the culprit for my sourness. Meaning: next week should look up! And maybe next week I can talk this thing to death, too. Waiting for the green flag.

Mom: You'll be fine.

Me: I always am 

Mom: You always are.

This funk I'm in doesn't fit. It feels sticky. And wrong. Off to sweat out bad vibes in hot yoga. Promise: more divulging and less pouting next time!

(images: art prints by Pocket Carnival and Kathy Panton on Etsy)