A Farewell to Boobs

I've taken to binding my breasts, much like the ancient Chinese practice of foot binding. The purpose of this exercise is to stop their out-of-control growth spurned by my current condition of pregnancy, or in other words 'growing a human being inside of my insides.'

Granted, other than the ambitious growth of my upper lady humps, I've been exceptionally lucky in the arduous task of human growing. In these past 11 weeks, nary a mouthful of vomit has projected itself. My moods are smooth as butter. And my belly only really shows when I eat too much pizza. However, do not envy me. I have not been spared.

Almost immediately after the two pink 'you're preggo' lines crawled into our lives, my boobs blew up. Like balloons. I said them, "Girls, stop it, you're getting ahead of yourselves...you have nine months. No need to rush." They were uninterested in my pleas.

This wouldn't be such a tragedy if I began with smaller breasts, say an A or a B cup. Sure, then I would welcome the increased blood flow to meh jugs. But I am a C cup. And not just any old C cup, a perfect C cup. I LOVE my boobs. I'm not joking. When Dave first saw them years ago, he gasped. If it sounds like I'm bragging, it's because I am. (I will share this: my ass is flat. Feel better?)

I didn't always have them. I earned them through prayer. You see, I was a late bloomer. In sixth grade and all the way through middle school, I was breastless. Skinny and big-toothed. The first time I wore a bra to school, Danny W. grabbed the thin rung of fabric under my shirt and snapped it hard against my back, "Why are YOU wearing a BRA?" Everyone laughed.

Or how bout' when I cried at a birthday party attended by atleast twenty of the coolest kids in 7th grade and Aaron S. taunted loudly, "Hey Darcy, did that board come with your shirt?!" Everyone laughed.

And so I turned my pain to God. I made deals like, "if you give me boobs, I'll be good forever." I was earnest and consistent in my prayers. By the end of ninth grade, God delivered. And they were glorious. Not too big, not too small, proportional, and well-shaped. Even Danny W., my former arch nemesis, eventually commented. He said, nodding in the direction of my chest, "Those sure turned out all right." Instead of punching him, I beamed.

So you can imagine my panic when my perfect C's ballooned into D's during the very early weeks of pregnancy. The fear only multiplied when fellow procreaters warned, "It only gets worse." I almost started crying when one of my best friends told me she got her breasts done after her two babies were born because they quote, "looked like cow udders."

I've even heard stories about out-of-control nipple growth. To calm myself down, I consulted my mother, who has a talent for diffusing my fears: "They go back to normal after pregnancy right mom?!" In this case, she merely shrugged (in other words, your boobs might never be the same hon).

So I've turned vigilante; I've started a war with my changing body, in the hopes that I'll stave off any significant change. I figure this too-small sports bra that I'm wearing as a binding mechanism will cut off the blood supply, and my body will just forget about them. Trick my body into circumventing normal pregnancy breast changes. Hey, it worked for the Chinese--just look at their tiny feet!

Let's face it though, my cleavage is borderline lewd. And worse yet, perhaps it's God's inevitable payback. I mean honestly,I haven't really held up my side of the bargain of the "being good forever" breast exchange. Woes me.

I'm gunna just hope and wish and pray that when it's all over, I get my boobs back. It must happen somewhere, to someone. Right?! (Please tell me if this has happened to you. I need real empirical data girls.)

The worst is when people say, trying to console, "But look what you're getting in exchange? A beautiful baby!"

I say, "Oh shove it! You ain't never seen meh boobs."