80085 (Imagine On a Calculator)

I spent a good portion of my childhood with the uneven halves of a L'eggs pantyhose egg stuck under my shirt, one round boob, one pointy boob, all eventual woman. I was a little infatuated with boobs, breasts. Tits. Really there is no word I am comfortable with. With which I am comfortable, suddenly the Church Lady, in the face of mammaries unable to end my sentence with a preposition. Rack!

But October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and yesterday Zoey put on my bra and stared at herself in the mirror. It's funny, the very human interest we all have in them. Melons, tomatoes, puppies. And so today I talk about jugs, and the many ways in which we celebrate them.

They come in all sizes, though something tells me this very tired lady did not come by hers naturally. Nor did he, though strangely his are more realistic.
In high school I thought I HAD to wear cute little bras, tiny Calvin Klein triangles of sheer cotton blush. So I did and spent grades 9 through 12 with my arms over my chest hiding the tiniest hint of nipple. Another word that is hard to say. Highbeams, what can I say? I run cold. If only I had these breast warmers to stuff into my Calvins.Often our infatuation with boobs causes us to do stoopid things. Like this shirt. A cod piece for cans, a Don't for Danny Devitos. (And yes, I found a list of slang for breasts and some people do call them Danny Devitos. Pia Zadoras. Isaac Newtons? Where have I been that mine have no proper given name?)
And the men who love us so, even when we wear stoopid shit, perhaps because we wear stoopid shit. Let us not forget, for they have chi chis, too.
Even this little man, cute as can be. Sizzle chest, at three?
And then this. The reason we are all slightly afraid of them. Knockers (Fuckers). Those beautiful funbags that sometimes are not so. I wish I could say something here to celebrate the courage of women diagnosed with breast cancer but I think this woman says it all. It is what it is, staring straight at the camera.
One day Zoey will grow up to knead her breasts the week after her period. But they are always lumpy, she will think, her fingers searching for nothing, please let there be nothing, wait--isthatsomething? One round boob, two round boobs, this girl who spilled from my egg like a secret, all eventual woman staring into a mirror. I want her sentence to end with a preposition, an exclamation point, ellipses... I want my daughter to end her sentence on her own terms, not interrupted with a question mark. Please celebrate Breast Cancer Awareness Month; click here to learn how you can help.