Boobs.

Ok, I can't wait for anyone to notice that this blog is here, I just have to say this.

My post-baby boobs are absolutely tragic.

I didn't start out with wowsa knockers, mind you. No, those belonged to my mom and, even more bodaciously, my grandmother (it's as if they are being phased out of my bloodline in a cruel Darwinian prank). But they were OKAY; they got the job done. I could hoist them satisfactorily in a push-up bra and feel confident in their perkiness. And while I always joked that one day I would purchase a pair of killer ta-tas, I was never SERIOUS.

Then one day, after breastfeeding three children in rapid succession for a sum total of three years, I woke up to discover that the saddest, most pathetic little things had taken up residence on my chest.

It's not just that they are smaller than they were before kids; it's that they look... depressed, like their dog just died. Forget the Pam Anderson superpowers they were magically endowed with during the first week post-partum-- I knew that such awesomeness was only temporary (hence the many, many Hustler-type photos that I took of myself in the mirror). But I expected that they would at least *resemble* the boobs I had before. And yet these new boobs appear to have simply lost the will to live. What am I supposed to do with them??

Well of course I have two options: keep them or trade them in. Neither option is terribly appealing, for the following reasons.

OPTION ONE: KEEP THEM. Ugh. They embarrass me. I tell my husband that the current state of my post-baby body should bring him great reassurance in my fidelity, as this is hardly the physique that screams out STEAMY EXTRA-MARITAL AFFAIR. I even contemplated the notion of only presenting them to Husband dressed in cute, non-removable lingerie... but (a) it's hard to find cute lingerie that also boasts rock-hard cups to disguise boob flaccidity; and (b) it might embarrass me more to suddenly start wearing clothes in the sack after ten freewheelin' years. Like, Hey honey, it's all downhill from here, that's the last you've seen of those tittays, hope you took a lot of mental snapshots while you had the chance! We're too young to start hiding from each other... aren't we?

OPTION TWO: BUY NEW ONES. This doesn't totally appeal to me either, because: (a) they cost money; (b) they require surgery; (c) they necessitate those awkward introductions ("Hi everyone, look what Husband got me for my birthday!"), and (d) they would surely launch my pre-existing hypochondria into heights never before imagined. As in, Can't lie on my stomach to sleep, they'll explode! Can't wear a sports bra, they'll explode! Can't run after the kid who is scrambling into traffic, they'll explode! Not to mention that I *already* suspect I have foreign substances slowly and silently leaking toxins into my body, just by virtue of the fact that I'm not *presently* in any pain, therefore something MUST be festering SOMEWHERE...

So you see, I'm kinda stuck. Further adding insult to injury? My post-3-baby belly seems to have found a happy equilibrium at just around the 4-months pregnant mark (I almost dropped dead of mortification recently when the school nurse-- a NURSE!!-- patted my belly at school drop-off and asked if we were expecting again) (the NURSE!, a person who is medically trained to diagnose physical symptoms on sight! aaaargh!!).

I guess what all this means-- at least for now-- is that I will keep the boobs I've got, continue to perform Superman-like costume changes behind the closet door, and pray like heck for a visit from the boob fairy just like I did when I was eleven. Bitch owes me! and fortunately for her I'm a very forgiving soul.