The Boob News
The last time I had boobs was 4 years ago. That was the last time I saw them. Then it happened that I started doing Yoga frequently. And part of the joy in doing it is seeing my body change along with it. You see, yoga taught me that I could no longer ignore the age that my boobs could not fake.
A part of me desperately tries to ignore the fact that my tatas are changing: They are becoming baggier, flatter, and in dire need of aid from the most vertically powerful push-up bras to maintain pedestrian safety and keep me from tripping over them.
No matter how attractive large boobs are in their twenties, girls who have (kept) small boobs are the ones to cackle the last; they being the ones with the better chance of defying gravity. Trust me on this. In a decade, I will be selling pictures of my boobs, printed on the front of full-length dresses and thobes, with the slogan: “Be glad of size B(ravo).”
Yes, I do realize that I am going through “boob-manifested gerontophobia”.
The Good News
The good news is that, as reliable as every time my little comfort zone shatters; a generous avalanche of learning and reassessment follow.
Boob-anxieties aside, I actually like becoming older. I have always been fascinated by the immaterial powers and inherent wisdom in elders.
Boob-anxieties aside, a woman’s confidence in her Self is a gift. It is a gift of mind to know which are things that she can, cannot and will not do. To know the ranges of her mental and physical strengths. To know that she can do the dishes in one go, without the interruption of technology and toddlers.
Boob-anxieties aside, women live longer than society’s tastes in boobs. The long years after maturity, empty nests and repeated losses, are the years whence women have to figure out how to do things in the absence of money, friends and perky boobs.
And for those small and hard reminders on the inevitability of change, I'm grateful to my boobs every day.