Breasts...The Big...The Beautiful...The Boobalicious

Remembering my conversation with the boys and mainly their fascination with breasts and behinds got me thinking about my own. So now that we're on the subject I want to say two things right up front: First, I am grateful and feel blessed because even though they may be drooping like snapdragons in the Sahara, they are mine and they are healthy. Secondly, as with most things, you always seem to want whatever it is you don't have.

I'm not bragging but I've always had great boobs....the kind of breasts that men admire and women envy. And even though I'm not the type to keep them on display 24/7, I'm kinda known for my breasts (among other things, damn it!). Mine have been voted the "breasts I'd like to have" by more than a few women around neighborhood. And I've even had men (tacky as it sounds) point to my breasts as the size and shape their women should buy. Once, I was at a party, and a woman came up to me and rubbed her face in my bosom, stating she'd been wanting to do that all night. Can't you just hear the nervous laughter? I was mortified.

Okay, it sounds a little like bragging but I'm really not because it took me forever to get them (Carla DeLucci and I were the only girls still wearing a training bra in the eighth grade) and then it wasn't until I got into my 40's (when frankly they aren't quite so glorious) that I fell in love with my breasts.

In high school, my boobs got me a lot of embarrassing attention. My sexual confidence wasn't quite keeping up with my bustline so I tried to hide the source of the attention. I didn't wear low cut or particularly tight shirts, nothing to really showcase the girls. I didn't even wear a bikini until I was of legal drinking again! Looking back it was my shyness about my body that gave me the 'mysterious' side that still defines me today.

When I was in my twenties, having great breasts was a real asset for sure. Yes, they were a man-magnet, but by then I was finding my fashion style and all the clothes I wanted to wear looked better on smaller breasted women--like models (forget I'm only 5'3" and curvy. Like I said, you always want what you don't have). I spent most of my twenties wishing for B-cups. With smaller breasts I could wear the sexy halter tops and blazers without a blouse and daring bathing suits cut down to my bellybutton without people forgetting I had a face and always zeroing in on my mammories. Wearing those kind of clothes with large breasts, more often than not, crosses that fine line between sexy and slutty, and the General's daughter is no slut.

But let's be real. They were an attention-getter and a definite plus when it came down to my husband deciding to ask me to marry him.

In my thirties, my breasts were baby-magnets. They changed, filling up to a size D-cup to nurture my children and then returning to my normal C-cup. It must have been wearing those ugly maternity bras that led me to discover the thrill of pretty brassieres. Though more comfortable with my cleavage, I was now in that distorted mommy vs sex object confused stage, so while I was dressing more like a mommy, lingerie became my invisible obsession. I could buy bras anywhere--from the poshest lingerie shop to Marshall's. I'd always find something to keep me sensually outfitted.

I entered my 40's a stone diva. In the best shape of my life, I felt great--sexy and wise--and my breasts never looked better. I was more confident about my body and myself in general. Forty was fantastic. Forty was fabulous. Forty through forty-three was the freakin' bomb. Then I turned 44 and stuff (like hormones and gravity) started to happen. All my bras and tops were shrinking. I went to get fitted only to realize that it wasn't the bras getting smaller (duh!) but my boobs getting larger. Oh no! I never wanted bigger boobs! I never asked for bigger boobs. Why not give them to someone who really needed them?

I went from a 36 C to a 42 Long (okay a wee bit of an exaggeration). Forget that 36 D is the most requested size for breast augmentations. This change in cup size caused a huge upheaval to my female psyche. My bigger boobs were making me feel matronly. Dowdy. It wasn't fair. I'd had such a short time of feeling fabulous. Hormones suck.

I felt I was now sentenced to wearing beige, granny bras (sorry Grandy) with enough hardware to set off airport metal detectors. I was afraid to walk past refrigerator magnets. Now my clothes didn't fit. I had to start buying a larger size to accommodate my breasts and then run to the tailor to fit the rest of my body. Button up shirts were now cardigans. I had to worry about wearing scoop necklines so I didn't look like I was sporting a uniboob. And then there was the added pressure of upping my exercise routine. I really had to worry about keeping my stomach toned so I didn't end up walking around looking like the capital letter B. All the while I was reverting back to high school. Trying to cover the girls back up so I wouldn't be perceived as a desperate old diva. And because I had no other choice (nothing buttoned damn it!) my cleavage was spilling out on a more regular basis. The comments flew! I was back to feeling embarrassed and annoyed.

But a funny thing happened somewhere around 45. I once again began to enjoy the attention the girls were bringing me. After nearly twenty years of avoiding them, I am intentionally wearing clothes that showcase my cleavage. Instead of cringing at the subtle glances and cheeky comments, I appreciate them. Perhaps it is the I-could-give-a-damn-attitude that comes with middle age or the desire to stay sexually relevant, but I'm no longer concerned what anyone thinks about me. I've matured into my bustline. On my last vacation I even wore a bikini and after twenty minutes of strategically positioning myself so my nipples didn't get lost in my armpits, I even got quite a few glances and smiles (okay, they were men well past 40 but men nonetheless). And guess what, because D cup is the most requested fake boobie size, there are plenty of beautiful, sexy bras out there for the wearing and sharing.

So now we come to the moral of this story and this entire blog, which is that ATTITUDE is everything. It takes so long for us women to find and be comfortable with our sexual selves that we miss so many great life and love experiences worrying that we don't measure up--whether by cup size or hair length or dress size. We receive so many mixed messages about what's sexy and who's sexy that we worry ourselves into sexlessism (I'm not sure that's a real word but you get the gist). It's like the Babes said in my last entry, they'd rather be with a confident woman with small boobs than a uncomfortable one with Pamela Anderson's.

Okay, I won't lie. It feels good being both confident and boobalicious. But before you think I'm bragging again, know this. I got good breasts because God decided that I couldn't have it all and gave me absolutely no butt. None. Zilch. Nada. Great Wall of China. Flapjack. Those were the typical cracks thrown at me, until of course, I turn around. :-)

So, all you WMS out there, pick out your best feature and embrace it. Take what you've got (forget about what's not) and work it til you drop!

What do you think?

Next entry: New year...A New Sensual You.