Breast MeatSamantha Bee
I apologize in advance for my current fascination with foundation garments. I promise it will be over soon, and truthfully, it’s weird coming from someone who spends most days fantasizing about slimming head to toe turtleneck bathing costumes and the benefits of doing yoga in a workout niqab.
But, the other day I had the opportunity to attend the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. “Why would there be a fashion show about underpants‘, ask those among us who treasure the dignity and gentle absorbency of a full seated panty with a soft cotton gusset. People like me embrace panty lines as a badge of honor; they proudly announce that I am a responsible mother of three who does not take unnecessary risks. At any moment of the day a person can laugh and sneeze at the same time: it’s best to be prepared.
But apparently, there are those who walk among us, who actually worry about things like sexual attractiveness’ and allure’. And so there I was, gamely watching giant large-breasted Amazon women from the Planet Boobs strut by in their fabulously insane runway ensembles (it’s sexy because they’re dressed like angels! So. They’re…supposed to be dead, then? Nevermind. I like to take things literally.)
And it immediately shifted my attention from downtown to uptown, to my breastal’ region.
And then I got sad.
In the last five years I have been either pregnant, breastfeeding, or both at the same time. My boobs have been gainfully employed for a long, long time, and since I am about to stop breastfeeding my youngest child, they are about to get their pink slips.
Which is to say that, from what I have heard, when you have breastfed three kids, they end up taking all your boob-meat when the last one is done. So, although I have always lived as a B’ cup, I may soon dwindle to an A’, or an A minus’, or an N’ for Nature Special Involving Tribes of Shirtless Aboriginals with those crazy boobs that frighten small children. Like, the ones that are so long and weird they are like wide flesh tone ribbons that can be tied into a bow behind your back, or fashioned into a sling with which to carry a newborn baby.
Is this what happens? Is this true?
Are there those among you who have done this and are currently pushing back from your laptop in mock horror? A knowing smile creeping across your face? And next, as you mentally start to compose a response to this post with a description of what happened to your boobs, are these the terms that immediately come to mind: fried egg, tennis ball in a tube sock, deflated miniature football?
Dear God… twin chapatis?
I loved my girls, they were always trusted friends; impressive in a push up, there when I needed them to nourish all three of my little babies. I feel like a jerk that I wasted so much time thinking they weren’t good enough, big enough, or perky enough when they were there the whole time, patiently waiting for their time to shine. And shine they did, the Little Troopers.
So maybe instead of waiting around I should just get more proactive about the situation. I’m not talking about anything crazy or surgical; maybe I just need to take another page out of the Victoria’s Secret handbook and embrace the concept of showmanship. There’s nothing like wearing an eight foot set of glittering metal angel wings in the shower to take the focus off a person’s battle-weary N’s’.