No, really. Just for a second, draw your attention away from her eyes (why yes, they are a lovely shade of brown) and force your eyes upon her cleavage. I know it's hard, but do it for posterity or whatever.
Two balls of fat. That's it. I don't even know what they're there for.
That's not true. I try hard to maintain constant honesty, and I just lied right there. I actually know exactly why those two balls of fat are placed on the front of the female human.
Free drinks.
And warnings rather than tickets.
And distraction from actual conversations.
Other than that, though, no real purpose.
So what's the big freakin deal?
I posted a pic of myself on Facebook looking like a beached whale. No kidding. I had just finished my second sixty day round of the torture known as Insanity, and I took a quick picture of my revelry.
No makeup, sweaty, hair a mess, in an oversized workout top, sports bra & pants.
Absolutely nothing appealing about the photograph.
But apparently I was looking at it wrong because, according to the numerous texts I received, my boobs were hanging out.
My grown up, mama of three, not nearly as glorious as they once were, smooshed into a sports bra boobs.
First of all, they are attached by muscle, nerves and skin. I cannot remove them. These boobs are here to stay - though I imagine their southern journey will someday place them somewhere in the vicinity of my shins.
Second, why is it such a big deal? If my love handles and larger than life thighs can be whispered about, why must my more northern fat regions be exalted on high?
I want to understand.
That's another lie. I really don't care to understand.
Though, if you have a reasonable answer, I'd love to hear it.
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