Last week I overheard the neighbor kid say that he got to touch a boob, which got me thinking. First, he made it sound like a pretty big deal so I wondered if I should send a card or buy him a balloon or something to celebrate, but decided against it.
Second, what is the big deal with boobs?
Because I overshare, most of you know that I’m not exactly well-endowed and would just as soon go braless if it wasn’t for that little thing called the office and the awkwardness of “alert” nipples in cold conference rooms.
Side note: I hate, hate the word nipple. We need a new synonym for this, like “boob bulls eye” or “bust bumps” or something.
Anyway, while I got the small bump in the middle of my nose frommy grandma, I also got small bumps on my chest and not the titanic ta-tas that she has. In fact, I think my first memory of seeing actual boobs is with her.
Every little girl needs a mullet and sock boobs.
I have this distinct memory of being on my grandma’s bathroom counter after she washed my feet in the sink. Apparently I’m a splasher because she had to change her shirt. She whipped it off, turned around and two swinging sacks large enough to alter the tides came flying around in her massive over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder.
Quickly looking down at my concave counterpart, it became clear to me that six kids and 60 years could do a lot to alter the female form.
I was both mortified and fascinated by the size of her fleshy pillows. I mean, I knew they were there before in the way I knew my grandpa had tiny bird legs and socks with the balls on the back. But to see those grand gazongas—if only as they passed in a busty blur—was quite a surprise.
After she changed her shirt, we went out to the line to hang her other shirt to dry. There—flying like a flag of fleshy freedom—were some of grandma’s bras. Big, huge white underwire numbers that could double as a hammock for a small child were clothes-pinned right next to the sheets and grandpa’s stained T-shirts on the line.
“So this is what I have to look forward to?” I wondered as I untangled myself from the now-semi-clean sheet I was “helping” to fold. “The rest of my life is going to be spent lugging around bowling balls in a bra that could house newborn squirrels? Won’t they get in the way of the fun things like baseball and teaching Get In Shape Girl on the front lawn to reluctant neighbor kids?”
Well, years later it’s become as clear as the slightly bumpy nose on my face that my cleavage is not a concern, as it doesn’t exist.
Some women might feel insecure about this, like they’re “less of a woman” because they don’t have huge honkers—or any at all. And while I admit that it would be nice to feel a bit more “gifted” in the breasticle area—if only to have something to catch the food that I drop—there are a million other things that I would rather feel insecure about.
I figure you get what you get, and what I got were more memories than mammories from Gram, one faithful bra in my dresser and a pervy neighborhood kid.
Two out of three ain’t bad.
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