This is a warning/disclaimer to any male readers not to continue reading this post. I'm not man-bashing; I just need to vent about some girl stuff - the "stuff" that usually makes you plug your ears with your fingers and run out of the room saying "la la la la la la la." You've been warned . . . oh, and please know that I'm very much aware I have two sons and that, based on the rather public nature of a blog, there's some potential for their friends to find out about it and possibly use the content as the subject of ridicule. I'm very conscientious of that fact and only hope that when they're actually old enough to have friends that read, this post will be long-archived, and they'll forgive my foray into the world of boobs. There, I said it.
Surely you're familiar with the movie, "St. Elmo's Fire." Like many of the 80s movies, it was full of bad hair and beautiful actors, with a predictable plot unfolding to a great soundtrack. In addition to the music though, the most memorable part to me is the scene where Mare Winnigham is making out with Rob Lowe (who's still hot, by the way), having held a secret flame for him like FOREVER, feeling like she just wasn't pretty enough, and now finding her dreams coming true. He slowly moves his hand up her leg, under her skirt, only to find . . . dum dum dum DUM - spandex. I related to her so much at that moment, remembering (um, still knowing) what it's like to try and play sexy knowing the truth of the jigglies and cellulite that lurk in dark places, waiting to out the sex kitten. One of the things I've never been self-conscious about, however, is my chest. "I'll never need a boob job," I said. "They're the perfect size and shape, even WITH one hanging a little lower than the other." "You go, girl!" Recently though that fantasy was shattered. As Dolly Parton so eloquently put it, "Time marches on, and sooner or later you realize it's marching across your face," or, in my case, across my chest.
Somehow I found myself naked AND in front of a mirror recently, and the shock on my face was priceless. (I'm extra thankful the mirror isn't full-length!!) Literally over night what once were firm melons (okay, maybe large naval oranges), now look something like over-stretched socks with half a lemon in the end. I used to giggle when my mom would forward an Eloise cartoon or some other "way-older-than-me-so-it's-funny" email about the trip the girls make south over time, but seriously . . . it's not funny any more. I'm watching what is literally the uplifting part of my youth slip slowly, or not so slowly, away and am wondering just how much WOULD a boob job cost anyway? It couldn't be that much, and I'm sure I could recover AND take care of a 9-month old, right?? There's no taking back the breast-feeding, or all the "free-breasting" I've done around the house . . . no undoing what gravity and time have done. Sigh. Please . . . let's take a moment to mourn the loss of my rack . . . and say a little prayer that the next time my husband rolls over to me in bed, hoping for a little intimate end to our day, his hands won't recoil at finding my supple breasts secured snuggly, and now PERMANENTLY, with spandex.