First of all, my most sincere apologies for alluding to that horrible song** again in the title of my last post. I don’t know why, but every time I am remotely reminded of it, it lodges itself in my brain where it stays until something else moves into its place. It’s as if I no longer have control of my thoughts–yet another brain malfunction I’m blaming on pregnancy. Add it to the rapidly growing list that includes, but is not limited to, forgetting what I was about to say, forgetting what I was saying in the middle of saying it, and putting pantry things in the fridge and fridge things in the pantry. Today I actually went a step further and attempted to put towels in the pantry, and this was just seconds after I put washcloths and hand towels in their correct spot in the linen closet. Apparently, the larger things on my body become, the more rapidly my brain shrinks.
Which brings me to a topic I don’t discuss much: my boobs. Why discuss something that, for the most part, does not exist? I have mentioned here before that my sisters and I basically halved my mother’s boob gene: Megan got half, and Charity and I got the other half to split. When I was younger I thought this was grossly unfair and longed for a real bra size; but eventually I found that I was happy with things the way they were. I’ve always been somewhere between an “A” and a “Nearly B,” which has allowed me to get away with wearing insignificant bras, or none at all. But thanks to pregnancy, those days are over.
Now I’m not sure what size I wear, but things have definitely changed. When I was 9, 10, 11 weeks pregnant I wasn’t paying any attention to my boobs. I was looking at my belly, which had always been very flat and was suddenly developing a round shape. And then one evening I went out to dinner with my aunt and uncle, and my Aunt K. announced loudly in the middle of the restaurant parking lot, “You have boobs now!” That was in mid-June. In early July I went swimming with some friends, and when I arrived at the pool my pal Lisa, who actually calls me HD in real life, exclaimed, “HD! Look at your boobs!” The following week I went to the beach with my mom. I was standing in front of her putting on sunscreen and noticed her staring at my chest. I gave her a questioning look, and she said, “Do you think your boobs are bigger, especially at the top?” And the week after that my friend MJ from work brought me lunch while my carpet was being installed, and her first words upon seeing me were, “You’re showing now, and you have boobs!”
There is an episode of “Designing Women,” one of my all time favorite shows, in which the Annie Potts character decides to get a boob job. Her doctor gives her several “test” boobs to try on so she can decide which size will best fit her tiny frame and board-flat chest, and she is astounded to discover the attention she receives when she wears them out in public. At one point she says rather emphatically, “THESE THINGS ARE POWER!” She eventually decides not to have the surgery because all the fuss is too much and she doesn’t like the energy she’s expending to manage her potential new size. I have to agree with her. I had no idea that what essentially amounts to FAT warrants so much attention. I don’t remember getting these kinds of comments when my feet grew rapidly from a size 7 to a size 9, or when my butt expanded from a size 4 to a size 6. Seriously, what’s the big deal about boobs?
*Blogger’s spellchecker doesn’t recognize the word “boobs,” but it does suggest “boobies” as an alternative. And also, “bob’s,” “babes,” “bibs,” and “beefs.”
**If you don’t know what song I’m referring to, good for you. You’re better off not knowing. You’ll sleep more soundly if you just pretend you never read that sentence and move on with your life.