Dear Boobs,
We gotta talk.
You ladies have been a little out of control lately. And by “out of control,” I really mean it feels like I’ve been trying to corral a couple of bucking wild stallions who refuse to be domesticated.
I think you fickle funbags forgot that there’s a boss upstairs who’s actually running this show. Now that I think of it, your behavioral track record is actually pretty abysmal. Lest you need reminding, please allow me to recap our tumultuous relationship over the years:
First and foremost, you all didn’t exactly make the best first impression when you showed up late to the party during puberty.
There were lots of other girls already strutting their stuff when you two broads decided to make an appearance.
Then you were awkward AF when you did come onto the scene, since you couldn’t really decide if you needed support or not. So instead of just being honest and letting me know it was time for a trip to the mall, my mom had to be the one to tell me. So friggin’ embarrassing.
We had a few rocky years after that as you tried to figure out where exactly you fit in in.
I’m sorry it took me so long to realize we needed to graduate from a generic sizing chart to actual cup sizes. I’m a slow learner, OK? Also, pretty sure only one of you ate your Wheaties, cuz there’s definitely a noticeable difference between you.
All awkwardness aside, eventually we hit our stride (literally—thank you Nike Pro) and you seemed to calm the heck down. I mean, you got plenty of appreciation, especially from all my boyfriends.
By the time I walked down the aisle in a wedding dress (you guys looked amazing that day, btw), we had a pretty good thing going.
I didn’t have to think too hard about what you liked and didn’t like, how to dress you appropriately, how to make you feel secure and supported. I knew I couldn’t get away with certain dresses without some help from Victoria and sometimes I needed to double-up when I played sports.
But then I got pregnant, and our harmonious accord went out the window.
Suddenly NONE, and I mean NONE of the clothes that we carefully and meticulously picked out together fit.
At the same time, you started giving me the worst grief whenever I tried to contain you. I mean, I totally get the whole “Live and let live” mentality but I’ve already told you a MILLION times that that doesn’t apply in public settings. Unless you happen to live on a nude beach in Europe. Which we don’t. But you were so cranky and ornery that if I so much as looked at you the wrong way, you made me regret it and sent me into tears.
Then the baby actually came and holy mother of pearl. WHAT WAS THAT??? First the weird colostrum stuff, but that was nothing compared to the feeling I got after. It was like I had Niagara Falls building in my chest, held in only by a measly shower plug. Pop that baby open and WOOOOOOOOOOSH. Like a friggin’ fire hose.
Speaking of which, I thought our days of embarrassment were over, but I was wrong. So wrong. Suddenly I’d be out in public and enormous wet spots would appear on my shirt. I was of course oblivious until conversation inevitably stalled when I caught people staring rather intently at my chest. Talk about a freakin’ letdown.
(Ha ha. It’s not funny.)
Add insult to injury, and you didn’t even have the common courtesy to perk back up after I was done breastfeeding. You just hung there like two deflated balloons. Until I got pregnant again, of course.
All in all, you’ve cost me a crap ton of time, money, and energy, and let’s not even get started on the emotional scarring from all of the mishaps you’ve caused.
I’ve decided it’s time you two started pulling your own weight around here.
I’m sick and tired of you just hanging around, bumming off of me. Once in awhile, how ‘bout you lift ME up instead of the other way around? We’re stuck together for the immediate future, so it would be nice to feel like this was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Not to scare you gals, but if something doesn’t change, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. I understand right now there’s a lot of hormonal ups and downs going on. And everyone starts looking a little worse for wear as we age. But after all we’ve been through together, I don’t think it’s wrong of me to expect a little love and appreciation in exchange for carrying the load all these years.
So, dear boobies,
You better shape up.
Literally.
Sincerely,
Your over-accommodating and underappreciated host.
P.S. In full disclosure, this picture is the result of me trying to get a ketchup stain out of my shirt, not a leaky boob. But it sure got me thinking.