At first I was not sure what to think of it, having been so attached to Flopsy and Mopsy. I lived with those fat bunnies since 7th grade, and when you are fifty one, well, you get the idea.
Yes there are things I miss. There is something Hollywood sexy about such voluptuous generosity, but let me tell you, the list of what I will not miss is much longer.
I won't miss taking them in and out of a bra. Putting them in a bra was like controlling an unruly child in the grocery store, barely making it out to the car. Once I had them in the bra, I'd have to shuffle and shift them all around, like distributing the weight in the washing machine when you've got a big blanket in there and it gets off balance and all you can hear is bang, bang, bang.
I'd have to make sure both headlights were in the same relative position, pointed in the right direction. Nothing worse than a woman's nipples all cock-eyed with one facing North by Northwest and the other sadly pointing to the South Pole.
How bout taking them out of a bra? I won't miss the etching of bra straps into my shoulder blades, and the itching across my back. I won't miss the tenderness all up into my neck from carrying them. I won't miss after just taking my bra off, the tenderness and soreness when the weight of Flopsy and Mopsy plop out on their own, all free and heavy and unruly.
I don't even want to be reminded about when I was on my period, just painful, absolutely painful melons. During my period, after taking off my bra, I'd hold them up awhile, then slowly, slowly, ease them down till it didn't hurt.
Remember the old "How big busted are you?" by testing if you could hold a pencil under your breast? I could have held a big wooden rolling pin, under each.
I remember once nursing Batman, he was a wee little Bat then, and I got distracted or something until I felt Baby give a swift kick. I looked down to see my big booby enveloping his little face, and surely would have smothered him if I hadn't come to the rescue.
Thank goodness cell phones weren't around when I was nursing my boys! I think in addition to not being on your phone while driving, if you are a big busted woman, you shouldn't be allowed to talk on your cell and nurse your baby!
I don't miss shopping for something cute to wear, and most of it would look suggestive or too revealing. I won't miss not being able to find a top that would fit my frame. I'd have to shop for the boobs, never my shoulders and the length of my arms.
I won't miss trying to exercise the three of us, me and each of them. You ever try to run or jump or do yoga with girls like that? It's not pretty, people.
I won't miss any of that.
If you notice bright lights near the Carquinez Strait, it's just me, burning a bonfire of all my Double D bra's. I wasn't sure what to do with the bag of my blond locks I kept. I guess I can use it as kindling.
I can hold my little cupfuls in each hand now. My shirts are comfortably loose on me.
I've gone from Pam Anderson to Goldie Hawn.
I kinda like it.
I think they are kinda cute, in a flat chicken fried steak 95 year old lady kind of way.
I really get now why some women do not opt for reconstruction. There is a physical and spiritual freedom to this I had not expected. I never ever thought I would understand that but I do now.
Without my hair, without my boobs, it's like I am making a statement, a radical statement.
Accept me as I am.
Love the me in here (as she points to her heart and her brain).
I can't say at this point I feel sexy. I'm in too much pain to feel sexy and I'm not in to that.
I feel lighter.
I feel free.
I feel emancipated from bunny bondage.
I never thought I'd feel this way.
Remember how I was worrying if a "C" cup would be big enough?
Right now, I just want to heal and test drive these little girls for awhile.
It's perfectly fine with me that I will get to do that until next summer.
It's perfectly fine with me.
I can't tell you what a relief and joy it is to be able to say that and mean it.
I think I might even get one of those "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" shirts, just for the hell of it, and I will wear it proudly. Really. I will.
I'll wear it proudly until next summer when I will switch to a shirt that says -
"Yes, these are fake, my real ones tried to kill me."