Maybe I'm an Amazon

Disclaimer: If you are a male who knows me in real life, you may want to consider not reading this post. If you are my father or my father-in-law, I expressly forbid you to read further. Turn back now, and we will be able to look each other in the eye tomorrow. Thank you.

It had to happen. I knew that, even with my trepidations about over-sharing, I would eventually write about this. Every nearly-40-year-old woman, every woman who has borne children, every woman who looks at magazines in the grocery store check-out aisle becomes alarmed at the condition of her breasts. I am no exception.

My boobs. They've had a good run. They've done everything I've asked of them, and have gone above and beyond. I fear we're reaching the end of the line, though. They are on the brink of outliving their functional life. Matter of fact, I think they are begging not only for mercy, but to be put out of their misery. I'm considering obliging them.

They were good to me. Back in the Hot Bod days, these 34C girls won the admiration of many. Men lusted; women coveted. They were gorgeous. Assuming a biological imperative, they've done their job and then some. In their youthful, firm glory, they played at least a small part (you'll have to ask Jeff exactly how much) in securing me an outstanding mate. They helped lure him into propagation of the species (he didn't want three kids, but he was powerless). And aesthetics aside, after each reproduction they dutifully fed my fat, hungry babies with very few complaints.

They're tired, now, though. They've spent the last few years in noticeable decline. We're officially out of the Hot Bod stage. (Seems like I'm moving quickly into the Saggy-Please-Keep-Yourself-Covered stage.) The babies have been no less than disastrous for my boobs. Depending on where I am in the whole knocked-up-breastfeeding-recovering (sweet relief!) continuum, my bra size swings wildly between a very deflated 32A and a 36F. My skin is pretty elastic-- three babies and not a single stretch mark on my tummy-- but not that elastic. Last time I was pregnant Jeff called my enormous boobs "weapons of mass destruction" (at least the Bush administration has given us some useful phraseology). Last time I wasn't pregnant or nursing (god, that was a long time ago) he likened them to tennis balls dropped in a pair of pantyhose. Nice visual, huh?

Caleb dealt the fatal blow on Tuesday. He bit my nipple. Hard. Not just a little "oh, that kind of hurt" nip. This was a searing "holy hell blinding white light" kind of thing. He broke the skin. (Three years of breastfeeding, and this has never happened before.) It hurts so bad I'm having trouble sleeping. It brings tears to my eyes.

And I think that was it. I think they're officially done, my boobs. In an occasional fit of wanting to relive their glory days, I give brief consideration to having a boob job. (Not so much to make them bigger-- I'd just like to lift them off my abdomen.) But you know what I'd really rather do? Cut them off. We have surgically assured that we will have no more babies (good old Jeff stepped up to the plate on that one), and in a couple of short months Caleb will have his first birthday and I will wean him and will have absolutely no need for breasts anymore.

So, like I said, I'm seriously considering their pleas for mercy. I'll let you know if I find a cooperative surgeon.