I only have one boob. You stopped thinking about the stock market tanking for a second didn’t you? I had scoliosis and had to have metal rods put in my back when I was fifteen. One of the tiny asterisks of this affliction is that a person may or may not develop equally sized fun bags. I would fall into the latter category.
Yes, there were times that I questioned God’s comedic design of my anatomy prior to my arrival on the planet “I SHALL GIVE ERIN 2 DIFFERENT SIZED HOOTERS AND A 2 FOOT LONG SCAR DOWN HER BACK” pause, shuffle paperwork “I AM ALSO GOING TO ADD A FEW OVARIAN CYSTS AND AN APPENDECTOMY!” God cupped his ear, squinted his eyes to peer across the clouds at the congregation of saints and said “What was that Saint So and So?” “YES, I SUPPOSE I WILL ALLOW HER TO HAVE C-SECTIONS AND SPARE HER VAGINA.”
The saints were all taking diligent notes and one piped up “It says here she wants to blog at some point after she goes through therapy, should we give her a bigger brain?” “SHE SHALL HAVE PLENTY OF MATERIAL TO WORK WITH BUT I WILL BEQUEATH HER WITH AN ITALIAN HUSBAND AND SOME SMART-MOUTH SPAWN JUST TO BE SURE.” He then stamped my paperwork and announced that following a brief lunch at Eden, all saints shall reconvene for the creation of what is now known as Charlie Sheen.
Well, now you all know the truth, on Thursday I received a brand new set of girls. Phew, that was definitely a load on my chest. Want some more truth? I actually had the M.I.A. boobie fixed years ago and loved the little sucker (get it) more than life itself. I swore those closest to me to secrecy and then relished in the glory of not having to discreetly wring out one side of my swimsuit when I climbed out of a pool or remove the padding out of one side of an expensive bra. Mike claims that he loved my body “just the same” but then got me pregnant 4 months later. So, draw your own conclusions…..
I realize that this is going to ignite a shit storm in my comment section with a few people claiming that God made me the way I was supposed to be. Feminists will likely picket that I have propelled women backwards to a time of feet binding, inequality and subservience. And my holistic, nature obsessed readers will fatefully attempt to teach me about inner beauty and solar panels etc. etc. ect. blah, blah, blah. And yes, of course I will have my supporters: mainly men.
I have an exorbitant amount of narcissistic guilt that only increased when I procreated. I breastfed my offspring with the determination of a politician trying to hide a love child. I rarely left my daughters for the first 2 years of their lives because I was afraid they would starve since bottles were foreign entities to their rapidly developing minds. The poor, confused things would just stare at the contraptions and squirm uncomfortably like I did in my fourth year of college when I had to take a pre-algebra exam to graduate. My sister finally threw down one day and informed me that if I did not stop breastfeeding she was “going to officially change my kid’s name to Moon Shadow.” She had a valid point; my youngest daughter did have molars and could identify all varying components of sentence structure.
Unfortunately the damage had already been done. My children were comfortably settled in the stage following the “beyond securely attached and leading to a life of maternal co-dependency” and my much abused breasts had now taken shelter in the dwellings known as my armpits. So I made a promise to my breasts that one day I would give them the recognition they deserved and they would no longer have to hang their heads in shame. Alas, they could retire from their lengthy career of service, victoriously standing at attention (preferably in the same direction), knowing that they had fed the hungry, pacified the cranky and participated in other unmentionable but honorable deeds.
I deeply contemplated the publication of my deeply guarded secret and ultimately came to the revelation that if I lacked the desire or the means to make this “decision of revision” the joy I sustain from my human experience would remain entirely consistent. Now having said that, I will wholeheartedly admit that ……..I. LOVE. THEM. I am sore, bruised and bandaged but I. LOVE. THEM. I could care less that my daughter told her first grade teacher or that I subsequently received a call from the elementary school front office sending their well wishes for my “procedure”. In fact, the only regret I have about revealing this personal information is that I probably should have allowed myself a few more days to heal because I have been laughing so hard while typing that my boobies are really hurting now. I am going to go take some Tylenol and perk up. Goodnight everyone. XO
This is what my adult sister and I do when we are given water balloons