We’ve had a parting of ways of late. Two pregnancies and two breastfed babies later, you’ve decided to de-friend me and befriend gravity, forcing me to heftily rely on and rendering me beholden to the much-needed sturdy, non-sexy bras that no woman wants to be seen buying, because you are well on your way to touching my toes. However, in spite of your impudence and your defiant desire to move in directions that my twenty-something year old former self would never have imagined, we now stand at a crossroads in my mid-thirties, both literally and figuratively. I could scream, rant and rave, putting the best plastic surgeons on speed dial, or I could sit back and accept my new udder-like image.
In truth, loving you was never easy. When younger, a washboard chest was not as enviable as was having washboard abs. Then, a few years into adolescence, you grew overnight. Having only really only ever known A grades, I was suddenly confronted with the letter D, the upside of which was that I garnered the favour of copious amounts of male attention. I often wondered if you were my friends or my foes. In the end, you became the best ‘wingmen’ a gal could ever ask for. Many dates, some good and many bad later, I found myself in the arms of the man I wanted to and ended up marrying, a self-confessed breast man, who worshipped at the altar of my beckoning bosom.
You provided sustenance, albeit for a short period, for my two suckling infants, providing them with nutrition and some wonderful mother-child bonding. And, for doing the job that you were created to perform, what gratitude did you receive? A Gasherbrum II (aka G2)-like climb into double-G territory and unattractive military- grade brassieres. And, I got upper back and neck pain.
So where to from here? I’ve met with Kubler-Ross and gracefully gone through her first four stages of grief:
Me (to my husband): my breasts don’t really look like two-gallon milk bags, do they?
- Anger: Damn you breasts – my button-down shirts no longer close!
- Bargaining: If you would just stay inside the confines of the cotton and wire infrastructure holding you up, without spilling over and making me look like I have four mammaries instead of two, I promise to love you again and buy you something pretty.
Me (to husband): No man will ever find me attractive again with these sagging sisters.
Husband: I find you attractive.
Me: You don’t count.
Finally, I’m ready to accept you, my healthy baby-feeding friends. Although you don’t look the same, unlike a man, I’m not going to trade you in for a younger looking model. Maybe one day I will gift you (let’s be honest, I’d be gifting my back) with a redux and lift, but for now I plan on avoiding the risks of not awakening from a general anesthetic. You’ve been my men magnets, provider of good eats for my kidlets, provided good fun for my husband, and never betrayed me with illness. Let’s frolic down the road of life together, as we find ourselves now, enjoying the extra swing and bounce in our united step.
Originally published on the Huffington Post.
Naomi Elana Zener is a new writer with a fresh satirical voice. She’s the author of both Deathbed Dimes and satire fiction, which is posted on her blog: www.satiricalmama.com. Her vociferous blogging has been read and appreciated by industry bigwigs such as Giller Prize winner Dr. Vincent Lam and New York Times best-selling author and journalist Paula Froelich. Naomi’s articles have been published by Erica Ehm’s Yummy Mummy Club. Naomi is also a practicing entertainment attorney and lives with her husband and two children in Toronto. She’s currently working on her sophomore novel.
Visit her website www.naomielanazener.com for more information and follow her on Twitter @satiricalmama.
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