For the last two days, we've talked about my SS (second stomach). Today, I'd like to move a bit farther north. If you guessed breasts, you'd be right. Call them what you will, the girls, ta-tas, chi-chis, breasts are an important part of a woman's life. They can also be a source of frustration, embarrassment, and laughter.
When I was in college, back in the Dark Ages, my roommates found a test to determine whether or not a woman needed a bra. Place a pencil beneath your breast. If it stays, you need a bra If it falls, you don't. Of course, we all wanted to fall into the second category, possessing such firm nubile breasts that no pencil would dare to remain in place.
Sure enough, my pencil fell Hooray! My breasts were young and pert. Some years passed. I married, had my first baby, nursed that same baby I loved nursing, loved the bonding that occurred when I held my baby to my breast and knew that I was both nourishing and nurturing her. Three more babies came along, with three more periods of nursing.
Slowly, but inexorably, gravity and nursing took their toll on my one pert girls. They drooped. They would not only hold a pencil but a whole tree branch.
My breasts are now retired, corralled in a miracle of micro-fiber and underwire. When I am brave enough to look at myself naked, I note the the downward cast of these once proud mounds of flesh and tissues.. Even the nipples are pointed to the floor.
I excuse their fallen state by reminding myself and others that they had been "working breasts." They did not exist for ornamentation, but had literally fulfilled the measure of their creation.