Nice Rack

I have been thinking about my boobs.  All chicks do, of course.  And I think far too many of us have a love/hate relationship with them.  I've also been thinking about all the thinking about my boobs.  What gives?

Well, when you're young and the boobs are new, it's just weirdness.  Totally foreign things on your body.  You've been in your body, just fine on your own for a good decade at least, and then it's like, What the hell are these?  And lots of, Really?  This is what you're going to look like??  You develop the foundation for your frown lines during this time.

Moving on.  You grow up and if you have a baby, then you do some serious thinking about your boobs.  Whether or not you choose to nurse, it's a heavy subject--figuratively and definitely literally.  Also, whether or not you nurse, there are ice packs involved.

Moving on.  You're older.  Not old, but certainly advanced enough to wish you had again those weirdo puberty boobs you hated so much then.  You look in the mirror and sigh a lot.

I hadn't realized until very recently how big a part my ta-tas are of my womanly identity.  I had been wishing they were a different size, different shape.  Specifically larger and up-er.  Wishing they didn't look so lazy, so National Geographic.  Wishing away that rogue hair.  Or two...

   

Well, fuck all that.  They have served me so well.  They've looked great in string bikinis and tank tops bustier babes can't get away with so much.  They've stayed out of the way when I run and curved a tight sweater just right for me.  These puppies nursed my child through his entire infancy and then some.  And they did it with minimal complaint.  They did their job so well that Promised Land was a nickname I came by honestly.  All of the magic and sweetness that is breastfeeding was an experience I was able to have because of these beauties.  And I am so grateful.  If they're a bit tired, man, to them I say, "take off your shoes, rest a spell."  They are technically retired now from their most earthly and organic of purposes.  But I don't look at them in disappointment anymore; I grew up out of that.  I hold them in a kind of reverence.

This is something like an ode to my breasts.  But it's an ode to yours, too.  And to your woman's.  To all with a set and to everyone who no longer has a set.  

Much love,

Mel


PS:  NO idea why all that first bit is in caps.  I feel strongly, but I mean, not CAPS strongly...