BeWare the Bosom!

I don’t remember not having boobs.  I mean, I think they are the reason my mom was in hard labor for 37 hours – they just wouldn’t come out the Vajayjay.  My head was half-way out and my boobs were stuck on the pelvis.  And I don’t just have boobs – like everything about my life, they, too, are above average boobs.  Not insanely extreme, but very above average.

In 4th grade I went to Rock Chapel School.  There was this one girl named Ashely Somethingorother.  Now, poor Ashely – that girl had BOOBS!  I think she wore a EEE. We were in awe of her.  Ok, so maybe I didn’t have them all my life.  One day I was playing football with the boys (tackle – of course!) like normal, smashing, slamming, crashing and the next day, they wouldn’t tackle me.  The wouldn’t reach for me, they wouldn’t block me, they wouldn’t tackle me for fear of touching the bosom.  And trust me – they are in-your-face bosoms.

Being a reasonably modest young person, I did not like my boobs.  They were THERE! BIG! EVERYWHERE! A part of my personal space to be considered all the time.  Almost everyone has to consider their butt or their belly when passing through tight squeezes – I have to consider the bosom – will they fit! I would wear t-shirts 4 sizes too big so they would not have to stretch across the bosom.  Fortunately, I wore oxfords in highschool (uniforms – gotta love parochial school).  No, I didn’t buy the female cut that nicely suggested one’s figure. I bought the men’s XL so they wouldn’t show.  I just looked like I had a tent frame inside my shirt holding it out at strange angles.

In 7th grade I was traumatized one time when I squatted down next to the teacher by her desk so she could show me something I was working on.  She discretely informed me I had a button undone – RIGHT ACROSS MY BOOBS! I DIED!  RIGHT THERE! I turned 14 shades of purple and went back to my desk and never said another word the whole day. If you know me, you know something was tragically wrong if I wasn’t talking!

My second husband had a fond appreciation for my boobs.  He was the one who taught me that men are typically a butt man or a boob man.  My guy will always be a boob man because my butt is as flat as a 2×8 (thank you mom – ugh!)(the one thing I get from her – a very flat ass!). So, I do occasionally show some cleavage.  Actually, unless I wear a turtle neck, it’s really hard NOT to.  I have learned that by accentuating my bosom, men are less likely to notice my front-butt or my very flat butt-butt.  That is called “optical confusion.”

Being single, I can say I’ve not thought about my boobs much, except to make sure they’re not too sweaty underneath (that is a whole other story about my “athlete’s boob”)(see, it’s not easy being well-endowed, we have our troubles, too).  The other day, I was doing some yard work for my mom.  I had the long-handled loppers out cutting down lots of small limbs and saplings that were growing rampant.  She has this tree by the sidewalk that had sprouted several limbs that needed to come down.  Probably about 6 feet high.  So, when I put the loppers up to cut one of the limbs off, my elbows were down by my side.  I put the blade on the fat limb and squeeeeezzzzeeeed the loppers – and with a giant POP! they cut through the limb and the long handles gave me my first mammogram.  Yup! Squeezed those puppies together with a great big bang!

So people, be kind to the big bosomed woman.  We have a lot to carry.


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