I’ve had boobs on my mind lately. C’mon, you can’t blame me. We’re romance writers. They do factor into our lives, at least a little.
In novels, they undulate, heave, quiver, jiggle, surge, swell, throb… well, you get the picture.
But in real life, they play an odd role. As little girls, we’re ignorant of them until we realize half the population has them. And then we’re fascinated, watching what other women do with them, wondering what it will be like when we get them. Once they start coming in, they’re a tender curiosity, a diabolical cauldron of embarrassment and pride. And then start the comparisons. Whose are bigger, smaller, perkier, firmer? When that first foreign hand presses against them, the alchemy of excitement and apprehension grows. What did he think? Did he like them? Do I like them? After the teenage years, we spend our 20s, getting comfortable with them. Pushing them up, flattening, enhancing, reducing, displaying and eventually (hopefully) coming to terms with what nature endowed.
Just when we “sort of” get used to them, the inevitable comes and they are transformed from ornamental decorations to living, breathing self-sustaining nourishing appendages. And once again, we worry: too much milk? not enough?.. will this cracking and bleeding ever stop? And how is it possible that watching the eyes of a little one can melt away tiredness, soreness, frustration?
Once they cease as a milking implement, next comes the readjustment. A coming to terms with the memory of the perkiness of those early years compared with the remnants of the ravagery committed in the spirit of motherhood.
And just as we’re railing at the unfairness of sagginess and stretch marks, comes a call into our world, reminding us that life is as ethereal as a spider web and that our boobs, the object of affection, nourishment and womanhood can also be a vehicle for death. A gnarled irony gift-wrapped in a paradox that can make us toss out all the previous worries and gladly hand over those cancerious appendages to be Guillotined without a moment hesitation so we have more seconds, minutes, hours, days and years with the owners of those little eyes we once nourished. And if we’re really lucky, to be around for the men in our lives who have stood by us through perkiness, cracked nipples, sagginess and who will continue to love us with or without our boobs.
Remember to take care of your ta-tas ladies.