Cuatro de Abril, Dos Mil Quince

¡Oh! ¡Buenos días! Esté post es en español! ¡Ole!

Es una broma, mí español es muy mal.

By golly, two years of Spanish in high school hasn’t left me yet! ¡Fantastico!

Today, I’d like to address my breasts. Tits. Tatas. Fun bags. Chesticles. Big N’ Bouncies. Knockers. Boobies. Thing 1 and Thing 2. Statler and Waldorf. Bazooms. Mammaries.

I have a love/hate relationship with my boobs, namely when it comes to gaining and losing weight. When I’m heavy, obviously, my tits get bigger, usually in the 40DD range, if you can believe what I was told the last time I was measured. When I lose weight, I seem to do so from the head down, with the weight disappearing from my face, upper arms, and sadly, my chest. It seems to skip my abdomen and then starts again at my booty and thighs. Even my damn feet get smaller, which I’m not making up. Depending upon the style and brand of shoe, I can wear a size 11. Recently, I bought a pair in size 9 because my body is bizarre like that.

I do not like losing boob mass. I thought maybe I was avoiding this phenomenon this time around, which hooray! I’ve been doing chest presses at the gym as part of my weight-lifting régime, and I do so love juicing my pecs. I was hopeful that by building the structure underneath that I would still give the appearance of a nice, lovely chest.

Wrong-0, E. 

I have had to bid farewell to 2 bras so far, which stinks because A) bras are fucking expensive despite the fact their primary function is to just hold two pouches of fat on your chest, and B) they were really sexy bras. G.d. it! Eff! Ess!

But, I was in denial about it, telling myself The Girls haven’t shrunk at all and that I’m being sillykins, but my mother brought a dose of reality to me yesterday when she mentioned to me that my boobs were smaller. How much smaller? I don’t know. Based on the fact the bra I had on yesterday was a 40D and there were gaps in the cups at the top, I’m guessing I’m down to a solid C now, but I can neither confirm nor deny that. Not to be gross, but based on the hand test (yes, women grab their own tits. If you are a lady and say you don’t do this, you are a goddamnedable liar), and I have large hands–not man hands, just really long fingers–but I still had substantial boob left over, so take that as you will.

I’m kind of weird about my boobs anyway. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the thought has crossed my mind to get a boob job. I’m getting older and the perk is leaving. I can still go braless and be okay and not look like I have two socks with an orange in them hanging from my chest, and I hope to capitalize upon this fact for a while yet, but I do want a bit more…oomph, I guess. And the stretch marks. Oh god, the stretch marks. I freely admit whenever I see a pair of mamms that are full, round, smooth, and free of stretch marks, I lament my own. Why, god? Why have you forsaken me?

But then, as much as I curse the fun bags sometimes, I also love them. We’ve had some good times, me and my tits. And really, E. Let’s not be so goddamned shallow and vain, shall we? You’re complaining about losing a little mass in your chest? Um, how about you think about this is because you’re exercising and losing weight and getting healthier? Stay heavy and unhealthy and have fat tits, or you know, drop the excess pounds and have cute, smaller ones? I vote the latter. Shush it, woman. Gosh.

So, here’s to my shrinking breasts: may you go down a size or two, and I will still love you and flaunt you whenever I want, stretch marks and all.

As always, thank you for reading.

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