I have small boobs. This statement won’t surprise anyone who knows me. It’s certainly no secret. It’s not like I wear those chicken-cutlet things in secret compartments in my bras (anymore).
When I was pregnant, my knockers grew to a decent size. The problem was that I kept forgetting I had them and accidentally flashing people because I’d wear scoop-neck tees and bend over too much. It wasn’t all that sexy since I was knocked up. Afterward, I was left with shrunken ta-ta’s and stretched-out bras. The experience made me realize that suddenly having boobs isn’t ideal for someone with my retail laziness and lack of poise.
I used to tell everyone that I planned to get a boob job for my 40th birthday. Recently, I’ve had dreams where I’m sitting in a doctor’s office picking out the size of boobs I want. Maybe now that 40 isn’t a mystical age reserved only for baby boomers, my brain has decided it’s time to take action. The thing is I don’t care about having melons anymore.
This is the question that keeps me from exploring breast implants: what on earth would I do with big boobs at this stage in my life? I’m not seeking a career in acting or modeling. I’m not trying to lure a new man with my mammary siren song. And I certainly don’t want to buy new shirts and bras. Why, oh why, do I need jugs?
Perhaps contentment with oneself is merely a natural by-product of middle age. That sounds better than ‘I no longer see the point’.