(Note: if you are my mother, please stop reading now. Same goes for anyone not comfortable reading things I would not say in front of my mother! I AM ABOUT TO TALK ABOUT MY BOOBS NOW.)
So: my boobs!
The first place I gain weight is in my breasts; the second, is around my cheeks and jaw. However, while I also lose weight from my cheeks and jaw when my weight fluctuates, my breasts never shrink. They only get bigger. And bigger.
My mental picture of myself, half the time, is still stuck at the day when I realized my breasts were exactly the same size as my fists. Nowadays, that’s a laughable comparison. It takes two hands, spread out, to try to cover one breast, and that doesn’t even really encompass the whole thing. When I walk around my apartment braless (as I am wont to do), I find myself instinctively holding them, one in each hand, to offset the jiggle.
But I don’t really expect them to be the same size as they were when I was, like, thirteen. No, I’m writing this post because of a newer paradigm shift: just a few days ago, I put on one of my demi-cup bras (rather than a full-coverage one), looked down at my chest, and asked my breasts, “What the hell?”
Because, you see, they did not fit! There was the dainty bit of bra, and then mountains of boobage hanging out the top! There was no way I could wear it in public, or half my other bras. But I hate bra shopping! I thought to myself. But I grumbled and mentally prepared to get something bigger. This is the last time, you guys, I thought angrily at my chest, but oh, if they could, they would have laughed at me in return.
Because yesterday, I came to a truly stunning realization.
I was talking to my mom. “They just keep getting bigger!” I told her. “I thought they were done!”
She nodded and expressed agreement, and I looked at her, as one does in a conversation. And I noticed her breasts. I’d never really looked before, what with her being, you know, my mum, but my mother has enormous breasts.
I am going to have enormous breasts.
Somehow, throughout my entire life, I have known that my mother is well-endowed, that I look like my mother almost identically (and like her mother before her), and that genes, you know, exist, and yet I had never made the connection before that I am going to look like her.
I’ve been looking at my breasts strangely all day, trying to picture my/their future. Suddenly my complaints about booburban sprawl seemed insignificant. But at least now I know where I’m headed: a veritable boobpocalypse.