My recent lack of occupation has resulted in more naked time for me.
Yeah, I get up later than usual, go downstairs, make coffee, let the dogs outside, and begin watching television, reading, or wasting time on the computer. Since clothing is not a prerequisite for any of these activities, the result is me being naked for most of the day. Further, since coffee makes me pee, I am treated to the sight of my naked body in the mirror quite often.
I need to shape up some…
For years, I have written 118 lbs, on various applications, medical forms, insurance questionnaires, and message board posts.
This morning, I weighed 126 lbs.
Now, most of this additional tonnage seems to have situated in the lower area of my butt, and I provided photographic proof of this last week. However, some of this weight has found its way to my boobs…YES!
When this began happening, I was skeptical. I wondered if I was getting my period, or maybe those bust exercises I do were actually working, but no, my boobs are getting bigger. They say the worst thing in the world is an ex-smoker; they become the biggest pain in the ass about smoking, once they manage to quit. I am thinking I am gonna be the same way about my boobs. I will no longer have the tolerance I once did for underdeveloped girls. Instead, I will flaunt my stuff, and make them feel jealous every chance I get.
My increased boobage has changed my outlook about breast implants also. Yeah, now that I have a taste of boobs, I want more. It is nice to get a few more looks than I used to get, and I can tell that I look better in my bikini or a few of my tops, but I am not satisfied. I wanna set those babies on the table, yeah, I wanna lay ‘em on the bar when I order a drink, and I want that bartender to look at them when I do. I want them to bounce a bit when I go without a bra, and I want that bitch at Hooter’s to feel inferior when I walk in the door.
I have spent my entire adult life afraid to utilize my nipples as a fashion accessory, and it is time to put my areola to work for me. Until recently, when I went without a bra, I resembled a thirteen-year-old boy with a glandular problem. Now, my boobs have a little more game. I ain’t saying they look like a couple of puppies fighting under a sweater just yet, but all those B-cup bras I bought (optimistically) are finally coming in pretty handy.
I have bitched and whined about my boobs in this column since I began writing it two and half years ago. The truth is, I have always liked them and I get compliments from those with whom I share them. I think they are proportionate to my body and they seem to maintain an acceptable level of firmness for being thirty-one years old. A little comparative shopping to other boobs on the internet, among friends, and in shower rooms or whatever, tells me that my areola are a little larger than I would prefer, in relation to my boobs, and whether it is due to my Italian heritage or too much tanning, they are quite dark in color.
Anyway, all this free time I have now is making me think about a lot of things…things I need to do, things I need to change, things I need, and things I do not need.
I need more boobs, and I need less shoes. I am working on a plan to satisfy both of these inequities.
I need to procreate, and I will assess my boobs after I figure out how to have a baby, but I am thinking I will be more receptive to surgically enhancing my boobs after this is all over.
And, I need to be employed…I lost my stupid job two Fridays ago, and while I pretended that it did not bother me so much, I have been sober exactly three nights since then. Yeah, I know, it is okay to drink a bit to ease the pain of a traumatic event…like never getting the pleasure of opening the trunk of a Ford Focus to find a 3 day-old dead fish, or a pair of socks which apparently came in handy as a substitute for toilet paper, but eventually, one has to stop feeling sorry for herself and move towards fruition of the great American Dream.
Boobs and a baby are both gonna require money…so I need a job.
I listened to President Obama last night on television. He seems confident that he can fix what is wrong with our economy, and I wanna do my part to help. My biggest investment, aside from a condo I own in St. Louis, is prolly like 250 pair of shoes. These shoes fill two separate closets, and most of them have never even left the box. This is an embarrassment of riches, and money that I need to use to help get the economy back into shape. I figure I can do my part for the sagging industry of cosmetic surgery, by selling these shoes and then spending the money on new boobs.
I gotta work this all out chronologically too. I want a boob job after I have a baby, I need a job before I have a baby, and before I get a boob job; however, I will need time off from the job to actually have this baby, and I am not sure I will want to work after I have a baby.
I also gotta wonder if breast implants would expedite the process of finding a job. If anyone has any experiences (one way or the other) in this area, I would appreciate the input.
Seriously, I have often said that although my boobs leave much to be desired in the area of size, I would not surgically augment them. I am not opposed to girls getting breast implants; I just think that for me, I hoped things would happen on their own, and it would not be necessary. I turned thirty-one years old yesterday…I do not think it is gonna happen for me. Yeah, I know, I have noticed some recent increase in breast size, but I am not interested in continuing to pork up just so my boobs improve incrementally.
I have talked to many girls who assure me that boobs changed their lives. Some raved about the additional self-confidence boobs provided. Others were more shallow and just were happy that they got to buy a new wardrobe.
Who knows, maybe if my boobs had a bit more diameter, I would worry a little less about iambic pentameter…see what I did there?
So, yeah, breast implants are looking like more of an option than ever. I have the financing all worked out.
Watch for me at the flea market. I will be the brunette without a bra, and with a booth full of never-before-worn size 7 ½ shoes for sale.