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Monday, June 7, 2010

Boobs: A Photo Essay.

I have always had a love-hate relationship with my boobs. As a leggy girl with a naturally bubbly bum, I always felt like my upper half left something to be desired, and has for over a decade now (holy hell) been the source of much angst and self-loathing in my life. As I stand on the cusp of kissing anything that once resembled youthful boobs goodbye forever, I'd like to offer you this retrospective on my cleavage.

I remember one paternal family function, shortly after I developed breasts, where I was ridiculed that I had bigger boobs than my aunt. This was COMPLETELY untrue, but it made me all the more aware of my body and the very minuscule amount of tissue contained by the sports bra I used as a training bra.

There was another time, in school, where a quasi-boyfriend kept asking me if I thought it was cold in the cafeteria and it took me quite some time to realize that my very lightweight bra and white tshirt combo wasn't doing me or my barely A-cup any favors.

Or, when talking with an old friend about the fact her boobs were named Thelma and Louise, how mine became named Romy and Michelle and it's stuck nearly five years after the fact.

And I remember lamenting to my mom that I'd never have boobs as her quite impressive ones seemed to mock me behind my back and she'd always tell me to wait until I had kids, because that's how she got hers ... and how that was reiterated at my college graduation when a female classmate looked at me as we waited for the processional and said "Wow, Tabatha, your mom has some na-nas!" -- and she was not lacking in that department either.

In the span of my life I've gone from a 32A in high school to a 40D while nursing Kiedis, and right now I stand on the brink of needing to buy new bras for the fourth time in two years, fearful of what epic proportions my bosoms may top out at after Baby Girl is born. I've had nearly every type of boob issue a woman my age can -- no boobs, flat boobs, tiny boobs, need-to-wear-two-push-up-bras-and-use-cutlets-simultaneously-to-create-the-illusion-of-cleavage boobs, broken-out boobs, "handful" boobs, perky boobs, able-to-go-braless-with-some-tape boobs, makeuped-to-look-bigger-under-bright-lights boobs, wide boobs, bouncy boobs, big-nippled boobs, huge boobs, need-support-to-sleep boobs, pregnancy boobs, nursing boobs, and gravity-effected deflated mom boobs.

All without plastic surgery. I KNOW.

So I'd like to talk about my boobs, because we're fighting right now and I just need to put them in their place. And to illustrate the INSANITY that is my body, I've decided to chronicle the ever-changing anatomical structure in photographic form, because I honestly don't think those of you that haven't known me forever won't believe me.

BUT THIS IS NOT PORN. Sorry. Just some really old photos of me that may or may not display my boobs. And no worries, all innocent parties have been cropped out for their safety. So here, in chronological order, is evidence of the chameleon-like presence of my boobs.

High School Lack Of Boobs:


Hidden-By-A-Shadow Boobs:

Skinniest-I've-Ever-Been Boobs:

Too-Small-Bikini Boobs:

Sunburned-With-Awesome-Strapless-Bra Boobs:

Summer-In-College Boobs:

Corset-Plus-Cutlets=Bettie Page Boobs:

Uber-Tan-In-December Boobs:

Tank-Top-Is-Doing-Me-Favors Boobs:

Decent Boobs:

67lbs-Of-Pregnancy Boobs:

Photoshopped Boobs:

Nursing Boobs:

No-I-Haven't-Lost-The-Baby-Weight Boobs:

Blurry-Why-Yes-I'm-Pregnant-Again Push-Up-Bra Boobs:

And they're getting bigger. It's to the point that I can't wear any of my bras -- not even sports ones -- for longer than about five hours without feeling like my ribcage is going to collapse in upon itself and impale my lungs. The wires don't even encircle my boobs like they should, but cut into them quite stabbily. And don't even get me started about my blossoming overboob issue, or the fact that Michelle may be an entire cup size bigger than Romy and do you know how hard it is to hide the fact that your bosoms are lopsided?

And the saddest part is that I'm not enjoying the preggo boobs this time around, because I know what comes next -- deflated boobs. Gone are the perky, round, tastefully appropriate, happy boobs of my not-so-long-ago youth. Here to stay are the sad, floppy, squishy, stretched out boobs of motherhood. As if carrying two little people within my own body and pushing those two little people from my loins hasn't done enough damage in stretch marks, varicose veins, cellulite, break outs, and loose skin, I have to give up my boobs too.

I just didn't know what I had when I had it. And now they're gone, like my high metabolism and ability to function on less than eight hours of sleep.

I'd like to pretend that someday this will all be rectified by God or a licensed cosmetic surgeon, but I know better than that. It's just one more thing I have to adjust to about growing up and becoming a mom. I just wish it didn't sting so much.