Girls Gone Wild

Tomorrow is the big day!  It has been three and a half months since The Guys in the White Van let there presence be known in my lovely lady lumps.  And let me tell you, they are marvelous!  However, because they tried to kill me, tomorrow they go.  No second chances with me–you try to hurt me like that, you are out of my life, especially when I can get new sweater bombs that wont cause me so many sleepless nights.  However, since I’ve always been very fond of The Girls, and since they will be leaving me tomorrow, I thought the least I could do is go down mammary memory lane.

Dear Mammary Protuberances,

Oh, how I will miss you!  I remember the first time I became aware of you–I must have been about three, and realized my mommy’s were MUCH bigger than mine!  I called you ‘nipples’ then, and I used you as a yardstick for growth.  Remember when we were out with Daddy and the lady complimented me on what a big girl I was getting to be?  I said, “I’m up to my mommy’s nipples!” much to the joy of my father.  We had good times then, dreaming about the day that our nipples would get big like the rest of the ladies in the family.

Then came 6th grade or so, when you went from ‘nipples’ to ‘tutties’ in the family or ‘breasts’ whispered with my girlfriends.  We were so proud when you finally got here!  Except for me, who was horrified to be bigger than any of the other 6th graders.  I tried to hide you in big hoodies (remember, this was The D) to no avail–you grew anyway!  I tried to deny my needing a bra till I was in A’ la Mode (THE teen fashion boutique in Oak Park, MI, in the 1970s) trying on clothes for the fall and the sales lady brought a few trainers in to me.  How embarrassing that the ones she brought me were too small!  Already you were destined for greatness, but at that age, who knew how to handle the power of the ta tas?  6th grade was also the first time I heard the words, “breast cancer.”  How powerful those two little words!  That b*(&h Sandy Carp (not her real name) used to hit all the girls in the boobs and say in a sing-song voice, “breast cancer, breast cancer!  Now when you get big you’ll have breast cancer!”  Should I find her?  Is this her fault?

In high school, my girlfriends and I referred to you as ‘boobs,’ and finally realized your awesome power!  Especially me with the 32 Cs weighing 105–a tight t-shirt, short shorts and a little make up and you could get in to R movies!  (YES, I was a nerd and this was about the worst we could think of that I’m willing to write in public)  Remember when we were washing the car in bikinis and that guy was riding past on a 10-speed and almost fell off his bike?  That was funny!

Then we went to college… Oh, college!  What fun we had, my boobies and I!  I met all kinds of new people in college and learned new names for you–‘tits,’ ‘ta tas,’ ‘melons,’ ‘sweater puppets,’ and my favorite, ‘fun bags.’  Dressing my developing woman’s figure was fun and carefree.  College was a good time for the Twins–they went new places and met new people!

In graduate school, you went from ‘fun bags’ to objects of rhetorical influence.  It doesn’t have such a laid back appeal to it, ‘objects of rhetorical influence.’  But it was in graduate school that I realized that having breasts sometimes meant things in the world would be different than if I didn’t have breasts.  Breasts cause women to earn less than men, I learned.  Breasts contribute to sexual harassment on the job.  Breasts also prevent women from getting the best deal on cars at a dealership.  Sometimes, breasts also cause women to be charged more for services at auto dealerships and other types of unscrupulous repair people who understand those with breasts should pay an upcharge for causing those without breasts to stare and think nasty thoughts.  It’s only fair.

Then came marriage, and the objects of rhetorical influence became fun bags!  Those were the days!  Dressing them up in beautiful little Victoria Secret packages for unwrapping later–The Fun Bags were still a perfect C and there were SO many choices!  Choosing lingerie for the new husband was a treat in itself.  But it was there, the first time that you bit me.  Remember, that pea-sized lump I found near my right armpit?  It turned out to be a benign granuloma cyst, but that was pretty scary.  I was only in my 30s, for G-d sake!  Then, after a LOOOOONNNNGGG time, the ‘fun bags’ became ‘milky fun bags,’ and G was born!  With a new life came a new set of ta tas, it seemed, and you went from a C to a 34 DD!  Holy cow!  I had udders!  And poor G, as much as he tried, and as much as I pumped, he couldn’t get enough to even wet the inside of his mouth.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, he enjoyed trying for a long time (what man wouldn’t?), but you just wouldn’t give it up for him.  Then he rejected you at four months and I stopped trying.  Why make the kid do something if it makes him cry till he turns purple?

Things were good between us after that, Sisters, even though you deflated and sagged down to my belly button after being perky and pretty for so, so long.  I went for my regular mammograms and nothing ever showed up.  Even when I felt lumps, they were always just cysts, or fibrocystic breast disease.  And since you were big and dense, those thickenings were normal.  Until they weren’t, and my ‘fun bags’ became ‘cancer sacks.’  After all we’ve been though, to have you play me like that really hurts, I’ve got to tell you.  I would never give cancer to a friend, yet you had to bite me like that.  We’ve been together through thick and thin, I cared for you, moisturized you, nurtured you, checked you, dressed you, brought you to fun places, introduced you to interesting people, and that’s how you do me?  Well, then, my favorite headrest for my infant son, in the words of the prophet C-Lo Green, “f you.”

We’ve had great times together, and I will always cherish the memories of my mammaries.

Love,

Miri

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s