I must bid my breastfeeding boobs adieu. Being that I haven’t seen them in almost 4 years, I usually don’t give them much thought. I actually have more pressing things to worry about. I have to feed and water the kids, clean up puppy accidents, that usually come to my attention after I‘ve stepped in them. Oh yeah, and I’m trying to get that whole writing career thing off the ground. However, as vasectomy talk fills the air, I am realizing they will permanently be a thing of the past, and G-d they were hot.
I am not your average gal with an average chest who pumps up some bazongas during and after pregnancy and then gracefully watches them deflate. I am like training bra, well, heroine chic as I prefer to call it. But, those post pregnancy tits, wow. I remember walking around my NYC apartment, frost on the windows, two below, in a bikini top and sweats. Pausing at every reflective surface to catch a glimpse of those puppies…mirrors, artwork, maybe a spoon, freshly shined shoes.
I’m going to put a picture of my breastfeeding boobs on my counter. You know, next to the pictures of the people and animals I miss. The type of pictures you blow a kiss to when you walk by. To be honest, I also talk to those pictures, though I can’t imagine talking to my boobs. However, I’ve have been known to do stranger things. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will remember a pretty heated conversation I had with some South African oranges.
If I were to converse with my inflated tatas of yore, I would say, “I miss you guys. I miss the way you enhanced even a tank top. The way you filled out a bra and indiscreetly peaked out of a strapless dress. I especially miss the way you looked in a thin sweater. I don’t miss the way you nearly exploded at the sound of a baby, any baby, and embarrassingly soaked puddles into my clothes at the most inopportune times.” Ahh, the bitter sweet memories, the good times and the bad. They will stay with me until I finally give in and get a boob job
People will walk into my house and see a close up of my rack and say, “What is that picture of?”
“Oh, that? Those are my just my boobs. See, and there’s my Granddaddy and my dog. Oh, how I miss them.”