Let’s cut to the chase. Boobs are what I’m talking about today. Just typing the word is funny. Boobs. Breasts. Titties. Funbags. Mammaries. Bewbies. Jugs. Hooters. Tatas. They have many names, but there is something about the word boobs that makes me giggle. Yes, at times I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy, but you have to admit that it’s funny. BOOBS. You know what isn’t funny? The shape of my boobs post helping-my-children-survive-their-first-year-of-life and serving as the Dairy Queen. It is not a pretty picture. NOT. PRETTY.
Let’s reminisce for a second. I know you girls are with me on this. Remember when you could leave the house without a bra on and your perky little mammaries were right up where they belonged? Remember the days when you didn’t have to pick those bad boys up just to wipe the pool of sweat out from underneath in order to prevent chafing? Remember the days of looking in the mirror and thinking to yourself, damn I have a spectacular rack?
Five kids later I’m left looking in the mirror and wondering what in the HELL has happened here. Now instead of a couple of fabulous melons, I’m left with a couple of shriveled up deflated balloons left over from a birthday party that occurred in 2002. I used to think that the old vagina really took a beating from pushing out five watermelon-sized nuggets. Not true my friends. Not even close. The boobies are the ones that have suffered the most dramatic long-term effects from years of misuse/overuse. These poor girls have taken on an entirely new identity and their own spot on the couch. Sorry vagina, you no longer get all my sympathies.
Do you sit around and say things like damn, I think I dunked my floppy butterfly in my coffee this morning. No, you wonder how in the hell could you possibly be lactating? You aren’t lactating you dumbass, your tits ended up in your coffee as you sat on the couch reading an article on your laptop. We don’t brag to our girlfriends that we actually went out without pants and no one even noticed our vagina whipping in the wind. No, we know we are living on the edge if we have to run a forgotten lunch up to the school and we don’t even put on a bra first. Will they see those nippies peaking out if they look to see what kind of shoes I’m wearing?
When we lay down in bed at night do we have to scooch our vagina out of our butt crack because it flopped right on over and set up camp? No, we have to dig our bewbies out of our armpits just to avoid any major night-time nippie tweaks. When you can’t find your pillow at night, do you bend over and rest your head on the pink taco? No, you pull one of those milk duds right on up and lay your head on it. It may be the old flat hard kinda smelly kind you keep tucked away in the linen closet in case of emergency, but with some well placed deodorant and a little fluffing it would get you by for a night.
Do your kids walk up to you and use your chooch-a-roni for punching bags? No, they walk up and try to go three rounds with the twins. At this point they are down on a three-year-old level and bear a similar shape to a punching bag, so you might as well let the little bugger get in a workout. The tube socks are flexible and if you do it right it could entertain them while you get some laundry folded or the dishes put away. Not to mention it really teaches them some dexterity and helps with speech development as they stand there and repeatedly say PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH as they are working out. Gives an entire new meaning to the word “funbags”.
When was the last time you looked at your va-jay-jay in the mirror and thought where in the hell did that hair come from? Unless you are twelve, it’s probably been a while. Now what about your boobs? Be honest here ladies, you know you have been giving the girls their monthly fondle (you DO perform a monthly fondle don’t you?) and you suddenly scream out, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? Then you realize that where there is one, there is two. HOLY SHIT, there is THREE! What do I do now? Pluck the bastards? Braid them? Leave them alone? Are they like grey hairs and if you pull them out three more appear? AM I TURNING INTO A SASQUATCH?
So to my dear boobs. cans. jugs. hooters.
punching funbags. chesticles.: I am sorry for the years of neglect. I’m sorry for taking you for granted and not always offering you the support you need. You have accomplished so much and I have been unfair in giving all the credit to your southern neighbor. You have worked hard and the years have not been good to you, so from here on out I promise to lift you up when you are feeling down. I promise not to diminish the impressiveness of your work resume and I will quit comparing you to the cavernous being that was once my vag. I will try to erase the memories of your youth and perkiness and embrace your now floppy and elongated appearance. Together we have done amazing things, so please quit hanging your head. Chin up butter cups, we have some good years left in us.
Oh, one last thing. Could you do me just one more favor and go ahead and cancel the rest of your trip to the southern hemisphere? If you could make that happen, that would be simply fab. mmmmmmkay?
I would be remiss if I didn’t thank some of my best girls for the inspiration for this piece. Once again you are a reminder that we are never, EVER alone in our thoughts and feelings. I would be curled up in the fetal position ashamed of my saggy titties if it wasn’t for you. I LOVE YOU.