by Bron | April 6, 2013 10:21 am
Sing this with me sisters:
Do your boobs hang low
Do they wobble to-and-fro
Can you tie them in a knot
Can you tie them in a bow
Can you throw them o’er your shoulder
Like a continental soldier
Do your boobs hang low?
Back in the days when jokes were distributed around offices and factories by fax, I remember picking up this gem.
It was a picture of this little old lady at a bus stop, looking at some beefy burly bloke wearing a t-shirt offensively emblazoned with “Show me yer tits”. Next graphic is the little old lady demurely lifting the bottom of her knee-length coat to show two exhausted breasts flopping limply just above her knees.
I was 22 at the time, and fairly rolled around the office in hysterics, before doing the responsible thing of sticking the faxed picture back into the machine and sending it off to another 20 recipients.
And the reason I could afford to roll around laughing was that my own pert 22-year-old boobs were sitting exactly where 22-year-old boobs should be – pertly.
I wore a 14C bra but could pretty much opt to ditch it on occasion, such was the pertness. Handy when wearing spaghetti straps or boob tubes, or for simple dirty wantonness.
Now I’m not quite sure when it happened. It wasn’t like a hugely significant event or a watershed moment. More like a gradual creeping, sinister in its stealth, nudging you a little every now and then until you arrive at full-blown awareness.
And where I arrived at was the fact that the pertness is more inertness and I can frighteningly begin to relate to the little old lady at the bus stop.
My bouncing Buddhas had morphed into something akin to a bloodhound’s ears. Where once I could glance down and see my nipples, I now need the assistance of a mirror and Braille.
Crawling into my bra each morning involves a lowly bow at the waist that any royal would be proud to receive. Should the Queen pop round for tea one afternoon, I’d be skilled in greeting etiquette. And I have Earl Grey tea too.
Leaning into the washing machine to retrieve that one cowardly sock that refused to join the throng when I hauled out a massive load of clean wet clothes was another moment of clarity. I squashed my right boob against the rim of the machine and it hurt so much I actually yelped. Similar to the noise a puppy makes when you accidently stand on its tail.
Same thing when I was cleaning the bath. Over-stretching to reach the far side in order to avoid actually clambering in to clean it properly, I squashed my boob. Again. And made the same sound. Again. Only louder. A person living three suburbs away who didn’t have ears would have heard it.
I had a quick look around to see if there was indeed a dog in the bathroom, only because our pet is a cat. No, that sound definitely came from me.
To be fair, both times I was minus a bra. Yes, my own fault. With the same desperation shown by Mick Jagger and Richard Wilkins, I refuse to give in to the ravages of time and instead carry on with my 22-year-old carry on.
But surely when I’m in my pjs and heading to bed, I shouldn’t have to wear a bra. Surely. But I am beginning to fear that the time has arrived when I may very well have to consider this option. Because no matter how I lie, they get in the bloody way.
If I’m on my side, they flop heavily and I have to somehow manoeuvre a pillow or my husband in there for support. If I lie on my back, the gravitational pull could be used to correct the earth’s tilt. And if I lie on my tummy… mmmm I’m not even going there!!
So it looks like I’m committed to a lifetime of industrial strength bras that I will need to wear 24 hours a day. And for 25 hours a day if we ever get daylight savings in Queensland.
My girlfriend of a similar vintage has the opposite problem. With genetics relegating her to an A-cup, she spent her 20s shoving all manner of items into her bra to boost her boobs. She stood with her arms tightly crossed a fair bit too. Try it, and check your cleavage. Finally, in her 40s she threw down the gauntlet and a few thousand dollars and had an enhancement. Her boobs are a sight to behold, and a heartbreaking reminder of my former self.
But surgery for me is not an option. Mercifully my breasts have remained cancer-free and I pray that will continue for the rest of my life. And while there is no medical reason to fix the fact that I could now put them on a lead and take them for a walk in the park, I will let sleeping nipples lie.
Anyway, if I had them surgically lifted, I may not have funny boob stories to share on What Women Think!!!
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