So, let’s talk about breasts.
I really had no idea.
I know I’ve mentioned before that my breasts are enormous and that I’ve wondered what random woman has inadvertently swapped breasts with me. I’ve asked people openly, “Who’s breasts are these? I mean, they’re not mine!” and this has made everyone laugh and openly acknowledge the mountainous masses on my chest rather than discreetly marvel at them, cameras on hand, like shy tourists do at the base of Mt. Everest.
Recently someone answered that question: their Little Spark’s.
The truth is that I like my (normal) breasts. Since about my mid-twenties when my weight regulated, I have been quite comfortable with my particular rack size. Not too big, not too small. Suitable for most clothing. I could push cleavage into place with the right undergarment equipment but I didn’t have to worry about its constancy. I was happy with their shape and their overall appearance. In other words, I didn’t fight with my breasts.
Now, however, I feel like a cartoon and I keep waiting for the giant pencil eraser tip (that’s the size of my head) to descend down into this page of life and erase these practical jokes that the cartoonist has drawn on my body. Anytime now!
I know that pregnancy hormones affect breast size. The thing is that I have seen other pregnant women who don’t seem to have been attacked by their breasts the way I have. When I know them and can launch into this discussion, as you can imagine I’m not getting the least bit of sympathy. This has been baffling. Do most women crave larger and larger breasts? Breasts that can topple large buildings? Breasts that need dump trucks for bras? Am I rare to have been satisfied with mine? I’d like to see them deal with breasts like these that are only slightly smaller than their baby bump and the aching shoulders and upper back that accompany them!
Speaking of upper back, mine’s not that broad. When I squeeze these monsters together as tightly as they can go, you can still tell that I actually have a small frame. (I think my upper back and my elbows are the last evidence of that, however. Everything else has puffed out like Popeye on spinach.) But try as I might, I can’t find a bra that will do that for them, and even if I could, I fear that the tray I’d create would be freakishly weapon-like and likely to inflict bodily harm on mid-size children if I turn suddenly in a public place.
People keep telling me this: “Just wait ‘til your milk comes in. They’ll get bigger!” This is no form of encouragement. What’s more, I am honestly not sure how that’s possible. These suckers (haha! pun intended!) are just slightly smaller than my skull size and there are two of them! Soon I’m going to look like a three-headed alien whose two superfluous heads have slipped slightly south of the neck!
It’s made me consider the letter “B” though. “B” is for breasts. “B” is for baby. When you look at my profile, it truly looks like the letter “B.” The upper curve of the letter is just a wee bit less enlarged than Little Spark’s bump, but it still reads clearly! I wonder if there was subconscious connection to this when the image of this letter was settled on in the alphabet…?
Things I’m missing related to these cartoon boobs:
· Sleeping on my stomach
· Walking quickly down stairs without injuring myself with the slap back
· Not having constant cleavage and the annoying stares it elicits
· All of my normal shirts, especially cute t-shirts
· Positive (rather than negative) nipple sensitivity
· Dancing comfortably
· The joke!
And then, after people have told me that my breasts will only get larger (so LOOK OUT!), they follow that up with the lovely reminder that after Little Spark has sucked them dry, they will be floppy and saggy and never recover. People are so naturally encouraging, aren’t they? I even had someone say to me recently that I shouldn’t complain that they feel like rocks because very soon they will feel like empty sacks. Then they added, “Sort of like large scrotum.”
As long as the cartoonist can just shave the weight of them down, I’ll be happy. Everything else can be aided and augmented through fashion.
“So, did you hear that hovering cartoonist? I know you’re out there! Get that eraser tip ready because I’m going to need some adjustments over here! I’m the one waving my arms from the white page on the drawing board in a mayday signal! Yeah, me over here, the one who keeps tipping over!!”
I think I figured out whose breasts these really are.