At night when I close my eyes and rest from the day, I’m reminded of how old I am by the way my breasts fall over the edges of my body. Gone are the two glorious mountains that once stood tall. They’ve been replaced by a massive ravine with two drooping boulders falling off cliffs.
And when I wake up in the morning and wipe the boob sweat from below them that formed during my never-fully-rested slumber, I am reminded of why my breasts hate summer.
It is because of two words. Two little words that have haunted me for most of my adult life.
Oh how I loathe that my size D boobs can’t enjoy the world of spaghetti straps. Well, they could, but then I’d have folks asking me why I’ve traded in my career as a writer to become a porn star.
I look longingly at those maxi dresses with adorable skinny straps with such severe jealousy. And then I look down and see the thickness that covers my shoulder. The dreaded tank top. The one that tells the world that you’ve lost the fight against your breasts and you need the support.
I hate telling the world that I need support. I don’t understand if the rest of me can be an independent feminist, why can’t my boobs?