My Boobs Fell Down. And They Didn't Get Up.

I can handle (sure and haha) every other area of my body not being what it used to be. Slightly hanging, slightly hurting, all physically changing. But the one area I can't take, simply can't deal with, made me cry in front of the bra doyenne at a 'ladies' store...is the Falling Of The Girls.

My Ladies. Honey and Sugar. The Wonder Twins. My Tits. Fire and Ice. My Tatas. My Brown Eye Girls. Nnoooooooooo.

Our history goes way, way back. We have been together since the age of 12 when I was still just a flat board which blended into a roundish stomach. My Mother kept assuring me that one day they would come. And boy, when they did, they came BIG. Hurrah. 

At first, they invited ridicule for the boys didn't know what to really make of them. Neither did I. Nor did they realize how much 'the girls' were going to affect their lives. Fast forward a few years and whaddaya know... I'm THE belle of the ball. Or balls. Smirk.

The Girls turned regular tee shirts into playboy worthy entries. They stopped traffic- literally. That simple shift dress hanging listlessly on the hanger? Va-va-vroom when slipped over my head plus some six inchers on. Laying on my back on sandy beaches invited hangdog stares. I always got weird neck tan lines since my chin almost rested on them. 

The number of speeding tickets I should have received, the jumps allowed in lines, the many doors held open waaay in advance of my arrival, the free booze purchased for me... all due to my ace boons, my partners in crime, my beautiful high lifted showgirls. Sigh.

We also experienced some tough times. When my boyfriend found that lump. The breast reduction needed for the size which originally thrilled and was now simply breaking my back. The resulting scars that scared a man out of my bed for he thought I was transgender. Not that there's anything wrong with that he assured me hopping really really fast around on one foot to put his underwear (really really fast) back on.

You would have thought I would have recognized the deflation sooner since we live together but, it wasn't until I went to dinner with my 19 year old goddaughter that I became 'aware'. She was wearing a lovely v-neck sweater dress that hugged her correctly and had all the boys turning around to appreciate her top assets. I also was wearing an equally lovely v-neck sweater but seemed to invite glances of 'sorry for your loss' instead of hungry appreciation. 

I instantly knew what the problem was: a drawer full of bad bras. So I visited the bra doyenne at that Ladies Secret and was promptly informed after being the recipient of an uncomfortable stare and not so gentle hand measure/squeeze, that I needed something with 'uplift for as we age they age also'.  Which is when the aforementioned crying commenced instead of the desired face punching.

Millions of dollars and one not large bag later, I walked out with my new fake breasts. In many colors, with underwire lift (who thought of this hell?), appropriate padding for tee shirts dresses silky tops you name it. They are the reverse spanx. Sometimes I sleep in them. And I never leave the house without them. Who knows when I might need a get out of speeding ticket card? 

My girls have matured into beautiful adult women. Who can still catch an eye or two when out. Even if you have to look...lower. 

xoxo,

Fabulously Fourty (ish)

beingfourtyish.blogspot.com