In Junior High as all the other girls started filling out and buying bras further up the alphabet, I remained an A cup. For years I've lamented over how small my 'girls' are, and because it's not possible to buy a 42A off the rack, I've come close to buying bras from transvestites' websites. Wait, what? Don't laugh; it's not funny. OK, go ahead and laugh; it's hysterical.
Ah... but who do you think is going to have the last laugh? That's right. Me. You see, as the rest of you well-endowed women while away your weekends wearing Wonderbras to keep your ta-tas from scraping the floor, I'll be lounging in my sports bra or no bra at all because I'm still as perky as a 12 year old (boy, even.)
Why am I writing this?
More importantly perhaps, why are you still reading this? (Apologies to any male who happened to pick today to see what I'm up to.)
I suppose the reason for my writing this can be summed up as follows: I'm happy to be alive! And I really don't give a rat's rear anymore how big or small my breasts are! Cancer has slapped me upside the head and forced me to call to attention much more important issues and to value every day I'm here on earth.
Life is not measured by the number of breasts you take, but by the moments that take your breasts away. (Now that's just sick, Mags...AND it makes absolutely no sense.)
I'm off to visit a friend this weekend. She's going through her own 'trauma'.... turning 50! And speaking of birthdays, this little old blog turned THREE yesterday. Time flies when you're writing about food and boobs, eh?
Thank you to all of you who continue to check up on me and for leaving such encouraging comments. You guys are the best!
Cheesy Pesto Pull-Apart Bread.
6 hours ago