Thanks For the Mammaries!

So I get up this morning, like I do, every day. I hop into the shower like I do not do, every day. (I lie when I say hop. As I already established in my Urethra Franklin story, hopping makes me pee my pants. Hopping naked makes me pee down my leg, which wouldn’t be too bad since I am getting into the shower, but I’m not a dog dammit. I refuse to shake my leg when I am done to clear off the excess pee!) Sorry, I get sidetracked easily. Where was I? Oh right, moseying into the shower. Naked body must pass a mirror before entering shower. There is no way around it. Well I suppose I could crawl to the shower and enter it from below the shower curtain, but how stupid would that look? Soooo, as I pass by the mirror to enter my inviting shower, I glance over and what do I see? Two asymmetrical sock puppets with crunch berry eyes looking at me. Well probably looking more at the floor if I’m being honest.

That’s right. I’ve lost my boobies. They went down in May of 2003. That’s when I weaned my first baby. They’ve never looked up since. Oh sure they have their perky moments, like when raising my arms high into the air or wearing a push up bra one size too small or walking on the moon. (Not to be confused with moonwalking, which I still have mad skills at by the way, especially when I’m wearing socks on my hardwoods.) Moonwalking does not make boobs perky, walking on a zero gravity lunar surface however, does. Oh I digress again. Anyway, I’m sad to report they aren’t coming back.

Oh we had some good times. Like the time I was on a co-ed soccer team at the age of 13, and I could snatch the ball away from any boy on the rival team because they were pre-pubescent and I was charging toward them with my giant freshly sprouted bazoombas. Yeah, that was too easy.

Or the time I had front row center seats at a Metallica concert when I was 17 and the guitarist (Kirk Hammett was his name) played a solo just for me while looking into my eyes. Okay, in truth he was looking about 10 inches below my eyes, but why wouldn’t he? These things were perky, happy and popping out of a tight fitting low cut top like all the good little headbanger babes wore.

Then there was the time a month after the birth of my second child when I went to a gymnastics event at our local arena. It was dark, my baby was thirsty, and so I nursed him right there. Thankfully no one but me and my 21 year old niece could see the geyser of breastmilk that sprayed onto the back jacket of the spectator in front of me when my finicky little nibbler let go suddenly. That poor guy probably wondered what the hell was all over his jacket when he got home. Please don’t tell on me. I felt bad. But I laugh about it now.

Too many memories to count…sigh. See, I should just embrace all the magic we’ve made together over the years and accept that they need a little rest and down time. Just let them hang low and love them in all their droopy weariness.

So back to the mirror, I say, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, why did these boobs have to fall?” The magic mirror responded, “Mother Nature is her name, keeping it real is her game.” Thanks magic mirror. I can live with that. I guess I’ll keep em real. Swingin “real” low. And hope we’ll live happily ever after.