Once upon a time, my boobs were loyal. They were obedient. They stayed where I put them. They stood at attention. They required very little supervision. They always faced the same direction. They were, in a word, trustworthy.
After nursing five children, I noticed some dissension in the ranks. Little bits of anarchy began to arise. They started to sag, well beyond what I deem acceptable. They can literally be rolled up like a burrito and each morning’s dressing process requires what looks like the stuffing of a thanksgiving turkey. They are never “at attention.” I can’t even describe them as “at ease.” They are so lazy that, when they are stuffed into place, they can be pointed any which way known to man. My final check in the mirror before leaving the house now includes checking for a lazy boob eye. Sometimes you look at my chest and you don’t know where to look as they are pointing in completely different directions. It’s hard for me to focus. I can’t imagine what is going through the mind of a poor unassuming passerby. Still, all of these bits of rebellion do not hold a candle to my boobs’ ultimate act of treason.
I love to buy Groupons. I buy them, forget about them, and then scramble to use them at the last possible moment before they expire. I’m incredibly reliable in my Groupon disorganization. As luck would have it, I purchased a Groupon for a massage for my birthday and forgot to book an appointment until the week before it expired. The only available massage therapist was a masseur, or as i like to call him, my mansuesse. Before I had five kids, I used to love booking a mansuesse. They have big, strong hands, they apply enough pressure, and, frankly, they shut up for an entire hour. I used to imagine in my never-had-a-baby-body days that I was probably the highlight of the mansuesse’s massage giving days. Now I feel like I owe the poor man an explanation for what he is about to encounter. “Five kids….the old grey mare she ain’t what she used to be.” Still, I bravely booked my last minute appointment with my strange new mansuesse and hoped for the best.
All was well at the beginning. Before my massage, my mansuesse asked me what I wanted, the massage started and I literally did not hear another word out of the man’s mouth. Silence for an entire hour. I was in heaven. I was finally at a relaxed point in my hour long endeavor and had been rolled over onto my back as I was massaged on my neck and shoulders. That’s when the boobtrayal occurred. As the mansuesse lifted my arm above my head while massaging my shoulders, my boob that had been discretely tucked underneath the covers, decided to do a “Hail Mary” and jumped right out into the open. Now, the old boobs would have never moved from their assigned location. This day, however, all bets were off. I could simultaneously hear George Michael singing, “Freedom, freedom…” in the background while my boobs were screaming for their Mardi Gras beads.
I laid perfectly still for what felt like an eternity but in reality was probably one second while I contemplated what to do next. I decided complete and utter denial was the best option. I figured the whole question about the tree falling in the forest applied to this situation as well. “If I keep my eyes closed and never actually see the protruding breast, I can never confirm or deny that it actually happened.” As I laid unnaturally still and forced my breath in and out, I did my best impression of a sleeping client. I’m pretty sure my mansuesse did not buy it for a minute but, again, if I just pretended it never happened, possibly he would not notice it either. The ridiculousness of that statement is made more clear when you understand these are not little ‘A’ cups we are talking here but post-5-babies ‘DD’ cups. I liken it to a giant cereal bowl full of Jello Jigglers falling onto the kitchen counter. One is the size of a human head. It would be impossible not to notice. Still, I played the stupid card and told myself to “Just keep breathing.” Meanwhile, I cursed my stupid, independent boobs repeatedly and vowed never to get a massage again.
It only took a second for my tactful mansuesse to lower my arm and discretely pull the blanket up. This time he didn’t stop until the blanket nearly reached my neck. I could hear the collective sighs of my boobs as they were put back in captivity. I’m fairly certain the anarchist boobs’ appearance scarred the poor mansuesse for life. He may never recover. Yet, when my hour was up and I’d put the offending appendages back into their secure locations, I emerged from the massage room with eyes now wide open. I searched his face for the look of horror I expected to find there and, instead, was greeted with a glass of water and the last question I was ever expecting, “Would you like to book your next appointment?” I’m fairly certain I could not wipe the look of shock off of my face. I quickly cursed my boobs once again, told myself to “man-up”, and booked my next massage…right after I left a ridiculously large sympathy tip.
If this day in history has taught me anything, it is to be prepared for the unexpected where my boobs are concerned. There is no telling where they could pop out next. In the meantime, I will continue to get massages from the same man. I figure there’s nothing left to lose. Still, i can’t help but stifle a giggle each time he pulls my sheets up a little bit higher.
Well played, defiant boobs. Well played, indeed.
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