Living in a World of Perky Breasts
I tell myself I love my breasts. I tell myself they look amazing for having nursed three children. I tell myself, "For 38 years old, they look great. You're lucky they aren't totally facing south." But I still don't quite believe it.
Numerous of my girlfriends have had breast jobs post-childbirth. Lifts and /or augmentations. They've proudly lifted their shirts and showed me, their happiness plain to see. And I'm happy for them. I WANT them to feel fabulous about how they look and who they are. If a lift or tuck elevates their self-image, then all the power to them.
But now I'm surrounded by so many 'perfect' breasts, I wonder about my own. Sure, I can conceal the fact they're lower and not as full with a good push-up bra. Sure, I still have cleavage and I like the size of my nipples.
But I'm also recently divorced. I'm back out on the dating scene and exposing this 38-year-old, post-childbirth body to new lovers. Hence, I wonder... I doubt.... And in the throws of passion, I'm happier if my lacy bra doesn't come off; for do the men care if they dangle, swing or remain motionless? Or are they just happy to be having sex at all? *grin.
Either way, I've no intention of getting a breast job. I'm going to live with what I have because I don't think my breasts are 'bad enough' - for now anyways. They may not be "perfect," but they're real. And if I keep repeating my mantras long enough, perhaps one day I'll believe that all my pregnancy war wounds - the lower breats, the C-section scar, the hamburger belly - are not markings of shame, but badges of honor.
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