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A few weeks ago, my pals and I took a break from the day to day and went out for brunch. As I glanced around the table, I couldn't help but notice how perky everyone looked. Gone was the usual Sunday morning attire of casual sweats and hangover sunglasses. Crew neck tees had been replaced by plunging vees and there wasn't a bra strap in sight. I sat quietly puzzled as everyone discussed how things were settling and whether or not they were back at the gym. And then it dawned on me. Everyone had new boobs. Everyone but me.
Over the past year, each of my girlfriends has gone through one struggle or another. From sick kids to wayward husbands, between the six of us, we have run the gamut of life's little problems and, for the most part, we have emerged unscathed. We have stayed close, but with conflicting schedules and busy lives, a group meeting was rare.
Back to brunch. While catching up on each other's lives, the conversation turned to me. "Has everything calmed down now that race season ended?" one friend asked. "Can I touch your boobs?" I blurted, instantly feeling my face redden. I quickly pulled a napkin to my face, trying to hide my embarrassment, but before I could site alcohol as the reason for my outburst, she leaned over the table and put my hand smack dab in the middle. I was mortified. And impressed. It was hard, yes, but not too hard. And they looked fantastic.
"So, yeah, uh," I stammered, as everyone laughed. I became suddenly self-conscious. I've always had a decent rack. Nothing over the top or cartoonish, but definitely okay. As I peeked down at my girls, cradled in a lightly padded 32-C, I started to question whether they were decent enough. And that's when the topic turned back to boobs. Names of doctors were thrown around and two girls giggled over a shared surgeon who apparently has an excellent bedside manner. Winks and nudges abounded and then all eyes seemed to settle back on my kid-eaten, gravity-battling, bra reliant breasts. "So..…," Tasha* said. "You're looking rather trim and fit these days." I smiled outwardly, while dying inside. Had I cardio-ed my boobs off? Oh god. It's bad enough that I have the face of a twelve year old, do I have the chest of one now too? Aaargh. "Thanks, I've been working hard," I answered quietly as I placed my arm on the table, just under the twins, giving them a little boost. "It's really paying off," Tasha smiled.
Talk turned back to annoying husbands and our children's accomplishments. A conversation I usually enjoy, on account of I have an annoying husband and accomplished children. But today was different. I couldn't keep up with what anyone was saying. I was hypnotized by ten fleshy balls all wearing little nipple hats. Breasts bounced with laughter, and my head followed along, bobbling like the tacky desk ornament of Don Knotts that my husband insists is a collector's item. My trance was broken when Tasha put her hand on my arm, asking, "Is everything okay?" I blushed a dangerous shade of red, and muttered, "Uh, yeah?" "Are you sure?" she asked, concerned. I wanted desperately to ask what the hell was up with all the boobs, to ask each of them why they felt they needed to shove sacks of fluid into their bodies through incisions in their nipples or arm pits.
And then it dawned on me. It's none of my goddamned business. I'm happy with my chest, for the most part. No one was asking me why I didn't get mine done, so I had no business asking why they got their's done. "I'm sure. I'm great," I answered, finally making eye contact. And I meant it.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and to ward off lawsuits from the guilty.
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