Boobs

I know that by writing this noun in the title, I will raise my number of hits on this blog. Behold the power of the bussom. It is a beautiful thing. It is also a pretty stupid thing. And an inconvenient thing.

Growing boobs was a little shocking and embarrassing, especially to  a late bloomer like I was. It really seemed as though my chest got sore and then these growths sprung from my chest like two large zits almost over night.  I had accepted that I was doomed to be flat chested and was cool with it. I had a chesty sister. I also had a not so chesty sister. It seemed that the chesty sister didn't get much for the inconvenience and the less chesty sister in an era before sports bras seemed freer.  Over one summer, my skinny pubescent body went horribly awry and people began to direct conversations to my chest. It did not make me feel like a winner.

I see my daughter showing signs of the onset of breasts. Its hard not to feel bad for her although I will make a conscious effort to do the Yay! Puberty is part of life and welcome to the threshhold of womanhood! thing. Poker face it with a smile. But really? Right this very minute my chest hurts like hell because these physical projections are attached to my hormonal and reproduction system. They aren't just flaps of skin stuffed with fat and silicone. They are ruling my comfortability. Sorry about the things to come, kid, I'll think without saying it out loud.

Don't get me wrong. I don't always hate my boobs.  Ensconced in the proper underwear, they have given me an edge in life.  They are excellent tools. I know damned well when my chests are working for me and if someone is dumb enough to be kinder to me because they like staring at them, bully for me. I also know this attitude is dragging all of that  bra burning back in my childhood back into the stone age. But oh well. I am in show business. The cave men still have industry power.

On the other hand, in the times when I have been very very thin and the bust is considerably wee, sleeping on my stomach feels really great. The grass is always greener, I guess.

I went to the doctor yesterday partly for my sore chest. My poor husband inquired about it. I told him a little rudely, in a sense, back off. Its between me and my doctor. I justified it in my head with the idea that I don't probe into his prostate examination appointments (yeah...I went there...live with it).  There are certain body parts that, after being married for awhile, have an essence of co-propriety that I conveniently ignored. The truth is, when they are constantly effecting my sense of comfort, I can't get away from my boobs. They are literally stuck to me. They aren't just something to stare at in skin mags, grab occasionally and, in a non-breast possessor's worst case scenario, catch cancer. They have parts and dimensions and textures. I just didn't want to give them more attention than they were already getting today. I was sick of them and they had rendered me crabby. The poor bastard, living with me and my...as the porn folks say....luscious orbs.

Tomorrow I will love them again. We've been together too many years with a history of respect, an appreciation for what we have been through together, incentive to grow old together because we know each other so well and, up until now, aged gracefully in unison with the rest of me. I will dress them in fine lingerie. Support them. Not take them for granted. Find them something pretty to make them feel wanted. But today I am not speaking to them.