Little Bits of Pixie Dust

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thourougly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, what a ride!!"

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

5 Days and Counting

Dear Boobs:

Remember when we first met? I was in the sixth grade, and I wasn't conciously aware of your presence until my mom pointed out that you needed to be restrained. I didn't know what to do with you, you silly things. All of a sudden I had extra stuff on my tomboyish chest? I took you, along with my mom, to the store and began the lifelong process of finding the "right" bra. I'm still involved in this search. You guys skipped right over the training bras and straight to the big girl sizes, just like the overachievers that you are.

I remember standing in the dressing room, tears streaming down my face, as my mom pulled and tugged at you to fit you into that contraption some like to call a bra. I hated it! I hated having this thing digging into my shoulders, my back, sweat collecting in little pools in the middle. I wanted to squish you, to make you go back where you came from. No one else that I knew had to wear a bra, no one else had to endure the stares as the sixth grade boys started realizing that, hey, this girl has something on that we can snap! and we can sometimes see it through her T-shirt! and everything to do with you was so funny to them. Not to me, though. I would come downstairs on school mornings, and my mom would make me march right back up to my room and put a bra on. No matter how I tried to hide the fact that I wasn't wearing one, you guys always made your presence known. Thanks for that one.

As I got older, and some of the other girls got some, I began to feel a little bit better about you. The day I had to get a size C bra was a day for celebration! Now you were big enough to really grab attention, coming into your own so to speak. Everyone was envious of you, no one else had the size and girth that you did. I was proud. I strutted around with you as far out as you could go. I wore shirts just to show you off.

But here is where you kind of screwed up. See, you just kept growing. We bypassed everyone else, and every year I had to get another size up. Suddenly, you weren't so fun anymore. You were like a weight pulling me down with each step. I didn't like the stares anymore, because that is all that people saw. You. I'm up here too, you know! How about sharing some of that spotlight? I had entire conversations where eyes never lifted above you. I know that you loved the attention, but sometimes I had a pretty smile on my face and I wished they could see that too.

And still you were growing! Activities that I used to take for granted were becoming harder and harder. I developed deep grooves in my shoulders where I had to hold you up. You flopped around painfully anytime I tried to run or jump or dance. I know you liked the activity, but my back didn't. My back and you don't get along very well at all. In fact, my back and my shoulders have formed a hate club dedicated to you. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that, but there it is. Maybe you should have thought about that earlier.

And now, you are just a curse. And guess what... in five days we will be saying our final good-byes. I won't shed any tears, but you might. I think I've given you a nice home for the past twelve or so years, kept you clean and nice smelling, made sure you were warm at night, and gave you a little action once in a while, just because I know you must get bored just hanging around all day. But the time has come to say farewell. It's been a (painful, embarassing, inconvienient) great ride. Thanks for all the memories.



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