Alert! Do not read if you’re afraid of my breasts!
Okay, now that we’ve weeded a few out, lets get down to business about some things. Mainly, the fact that I’ll be 40 in two and a half months, and lets face it, I’m chubbing right up. I mention the part where I’m going to be 40 because I don’t want you to forget my birthday, but mainly because the speed of my girth-growth is scientifically in direct proportion to the increasing rate at which I’m approaching my forties. These two factors in my life are inextricably connected. Scientifically.
This past weekend I was out at a festival with my pal Amy C, and we were taking all these pictures of ourselves posing with enormous creepy puppets. See photo below because it illustrates my point. Well, you can tell I’m tucking my head in to avoid the creepy tongue-thing, so ignore the chins, but even so you can see the weight gain in my face. Or maybe only I can. But you can see it really well if you look at my ass. Which I did not have photographed with creepy puppets. So take my word for it.
I work hard to overcome the fat-phobia that from childhood on was drilled into my easily drilled-into brain from TV and gawd knows where else. GI Joe did not jiggle. Of course, there was Fat Albert, he was awesome, but you know, he was only one person, and one fat cartoon character person cannot overcome the thousands and millions of cartoons and ads and soaps I watched from years 8 to 16 that drilled fat-phobia into my head. I’m sorry, Fat Albert, I know you tried. (Note: contrary to what you may be thinking, I did not have unlimited access to television. I am maybe exaggerating slightly about the “million” ads. My parents had strict rules about TV time and kicked my brother and me out of the house constantly; of course, we’d just go climb a tree and sit there talking about cartoons and ads.)
Umm, Blue, where’s the part where you talk about your boobs?
Yeah, so, my metabolism is slowing down like a train coming into the station, that station being Year 40. Memories of my college dancer abs and tight upper arms are fading into the mist, replaced by the daily surprise of waking up to this new me in the mirror. I have pillows and sag and really fun round parts that used to be not quite so round. And despite what I do, the healthy attitude toward eating and exercise (do it to feel good, not look good), the daily mantras (my body is perfect, my body is perfect), some mornings I honestly have just felt unready to look at myself in the mirror. Until I went bra shopping.
Me: Excuse me, I’m not much good at this, I need a bra for a shirt I’m wearing to a wedding. It’s pretty low-cut. A push-up, I think? In black?
Lady: Bras are over there. [because I’m at Target. They don’t fit you for bras at Target. Right.]
Me [returning]: Two please.
Lady: Just go in.
Me: Oh… right. Thanks.
Mirror: Whoa, hey there chubby, that cup you’ve worn since forever ain’t cutting it. Utter spillage.
Me: Oh my gosh. Oh wow, you’re right.
Lady: Any luck?
Me: Actually, I … I think I need … a size … bigger? Oh my god, I need a bigger cup size. Or maybe even two sizes! Oh my god! Squeee! [returning with an armful] Okay, I’m goin’ in!!
Mirror: WHOA NELLY! Lookit that RACK! NOW we’re talkin!
Me: I can’t believe it! Big boobs! WOOT!
Mirror: Now get out there and flaunt it!
Me: YES, I WILL!
Mirror: ARE YOU CHUBBY?!
Me: YES I AM!
Mirror: AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!
Me: I HAVE BIG BOOBS!
Mirror: Damn right. Now you just juggle those mamas back on home in that shiny black sling and show that other mirror who’s boss.
Addendum: next time you see me, feel free to stare at my boobs to see if they look any different. Just keep in mind that I occasionally, mildly exaggerate.