For the first few decades of my life, I didn’t have to worry about saggy breasts. In fact, mine were so small and perky it seemed highly unlikely sagging would ever be a problem.
My mother’s breasts, while a C cup to my B cup, were still perky and lovely when she hit 70. There was no reason mine wouldn’t follow suit. Like mother, like daughter.
Except, mom was tall and I’m not. Mom had three very small babies — we were each barely over 5 pounds — and didn’t breastfeed past 8 weeks for each. If that.
I birthed a 10 pound boy, and breastfed him even after he was old enough to walk up and ask for “mama juice.”
As a result, my cute, perky breasts grew and grew, until I hit a D cup. Which was, of course, fun because I never thought that possible in the days I was teased for my ‘mosquito bites.’
My nipples have always stood at full attention, regardless of breast size. They have a life and a mind of their own.
Nipples in constant erection fooled me, as my larger breasts started their journey to the south of town. As long as those rosy confection toppings surfed high on the waves I was happy.
Then, recently, I noticed that while they were still impossibly prominent, they were no longer pointing exactly out. Somehow, without my knowledge or permission, they stuck themselves out like a thumb one last time and hitched a ride south with my breasts.
This will not do. What good will their peachy perkiness be if they are no longer attached to perky breasts? If observers can only see part of the cute round top, but not the underside of the nipples?
The underside of my breasts haven’t been seen for some time. If I were to try to wear one of the new under-boob shirts or dresses, it would be my stalwart nipples you would see, when they’re only supposed to be the peek-a-boo teaser of the garment, not the whole show.
When you see someone in an under-boob dress, you hope those nipples will somehow peek out. You don’t expect them to come out and take a bow.
What is a feminine, overly vain woman to do? If I can’t wear an under-boob dress, then I don’t want anyone else to, and that’s oppressive. So whether I ever wear one or not, I’ve decided I should at least try to become someone who could wear an under-boob shirt or dress if she wanted to.
You probably think I’ll put in a call to the plastic surgeon for a “mommy makeover,” which, along with stomach liposuction and removal of skin there, includes lifting the breasts. After learning about the stomach part, I don’t even want to know what tortuous methods they use to lift breasts.
So that’s a ‘no.’ Plus, it’s too expensive, and I’d rather spend that kind of money on a beach vacation. Neither lasts, but at least with the beach I’ll have memories and get a tan. If I choose a topless beach, the tops of my breasts will get a tan. Don’t tell my dermatologist.
My solution? Hit the gym.
Did you know there are machines in the gym whose sole purpose is to build the upper muscles of the chest? I bet you guys know. That’s how Bradley Cooper got those pecs. That and good genes.
People of the female persuasion, including trans women, can build the same muscles and a miracle happens. The newly built-up muscles LIFT THE BREASTS.
Since I can’t swim the butterfly, which also builds impressive chest muscles, you’ll see me daily in the gym. I’ll be pushing and pulling, lifting and lowering, until these babies start to perk up. I won’t stop until my nipples, who are currently nodding off, wake up and point straight forward, as before.
After that, who knows? I’m sure they make under-boob work-out tanktops.
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Previously Published on Medium
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