I’ve been kidding myself for a while now, pretending that they still looked young and full with the help of a push up bra or a chicken fillet or six.
But they weren’t looking so pert after my jog today, when they drooped out of my sports bra in the shower. They looked knackered, worn out and ready for retirement as they hung there, limply, inert and balanced rather too cozily on top of my muffin top.
They’ve served me well, my firm breasts, but it’s time to leave them in peace now.
But before I say goodbye, I want to reflect on some of the good times we had together.
You see, (and I am ashamed to admit it now), like Katy Perry, I too prayed for mammoth knockers large breasts as I entered my teens.
But my breasts were late developers and took their time, unlike those of most of my friends. And once they came, unlike Katy Perry’s, they stopped growing disappointingly quickly to become more the size of mandarins than melons – although my father was quick to reassure me that ‘more than a handful is a waste’. Awkwardly.
I never did meet a teenage boy who agreed with him.
However, when I reached my late teens and early twenties I grew to love those little critters. Having small, pert boobs was so much easier than having massive bazookas. My well-endowed friends couldn’t go bra-less or topless or wear low tops without looking skanky. And when they unleashed their beasts they plummeted downwards with gravity.
Unlike mine, that defied gravity and stuck out proudly like small ice-cream cones taped to the front of my chest.
They worked hard for me, those breasts. In spite of their petite size, they suckled my children with ease, so copiously in fact, that I was known as ‘the squirter’ in my birthing group. The very thought of a newborn or the sound of an infant cry would send them into a frenzy making them gush everywhere. If pushed, I probably could have fed the five thousand too.
Although admittedly, it was difficult to leave the house for years.
Those puppies survived the pain of mastitis, cracked nipples, premature teeth and constant tugging but we’ve all agreed that it was worth it for the sheer comic value of sending the old man down to the pharmacy for nipple shields and cream.
They’ve had cones affixed to them as Madonna, been pushed up and out as a French maid and even popped out on occasion to say hello when they shouldn’t have.
But don’t feel bad for them, they’ve had a full and diverse life.
I’ve noticed ‘the girls’ lethargy for a while now and tried to ignore the signs. They no longer sit proudly on my chest when I lie down, but fall to the sides in search of the safety of my armpits. When I play sport they swing rather than bounce and no amount of padding or gel empowers them to get out there to say hello to the world. They’ve always had a sixth sense for what is right and they know that their time as the life and soul of the party must come to an end.
But God love them, they waited until I was ready to say goodbye.
And I’m ready now. There is a very different, wiser head on this set of shoulders now and I know now that although my firm breasts served several important biological functions at different stages of my life, with the maturity of age other parts of my body have become more important to my person as a whole.
Which is why I can let them go now, although obviously they have kindly left me with their shell as a reminder of the relationship we once had.