I wanted to stop and take a moment to tell you that I love you, despite your rapidly diminishing selves; I love you. When I put on my running clothes yesterday and saw in the mirror that you are mere shadows of your former selves, I smiled and made a mental note to go bra shopping. You've been good to me - I'd like to be good to you. Plus, I'd also like to think there are still good times ahead to be had. Who knows? In fact, I think I should say that I might like you even better in this humble one-handful version that you are now, rather than the stuffed to overflowing you've been before. In truth, you're more manageable like this, not always popping out of dresses and tank tops, screaming for attention and then getting all sweaty and nervous when you get it. Good grief. Especially when we were breastfeeding. Do you remember those heydays of yore and the looks we got then? You were each bigger than my baby's head. Where did she ever get the courage to come at your ginormous, hard and tight-skinned selves with her little pink mouth mewing and agape? She could have been knocked out and down for the count with one careless swing. But we did good, didn't we? We could have fed an army then. Though distribution might have been problematic.
Ah, dear boobies, we've been together through thick and thin. From the days of clumsy teenage boys trying to figure out if the clasp did up in the front or the back, to refusals of wearing any bra at all (for which I sincerely apologize), to lace and silk, push-ups, boning and under- wire, to strapless, to stick 'ems to corsets, to now, I thank you. You have not once let me down. And I will do my best, dear boobies, to do the same for you.
Love,
Angela
