never mind the bollocks, it's time to talk about my boobs

(And now Concha references an exceptionally trite and mindless movie that yes, she is embarrassed to admit she has seen, but it is relevant to the exceptionally trite and mindless subject she is about to discuss. )

I was twenty-two when I saw the movie, “The Sweetest Thing.” (Shut up. I was at a friend’s house and she put it on. I have better taste than that, ok?) There’s a scene where Cameron Diaz and the chick from Married with Children are standing in a dressing room. Wearing only a bikini top, Cameron Diaz lifts her boobs to the top of her chest and proudly declares, “Twenty-two.” She then lets them go. As they fall down to their sunken position on her chest, she announces her current age, “Twenty-eight.” She repeats this sequence of lifting her boobs and letting them go, to illustrate the waning of her boob quality as she’s aged from twenty-two, to twenty-eight.

Back when I watched that movie, I was twenty-two. As I watched Ms. Diaz map out the path of her boob’s descent, I felt content that I was still at a peak age and my boobs were surely still on top. Well, my friends, this past weekend I turned twenty–seven. You can spare me the happy birthdays, as I am not too happy about this one’s arrival. Because here I am, only one year away from her dreaded age, and I can confidently conclude that, yes, my boobs are also sagging.

“My boobs are sagging,” I shirtlessly announce to the Rican.

He squints his eyes to examine the evidence.

“No, they’re not. They’re fine.”

“Yes they are. Look closer.”

Of course he doesn’t get it. Men will never be able to grasp any of our illogical female plights. For example, no man can comprehend that we as a gender perpetually have nothing to wear. In fact I can guarantee you that if I decide to go out Friday night after work, I will stand in front of a heaping pile of brand new birthday clothes, declare that I hate everything, put on my pajamas and pout. This is also the same sort of female common senselessness used when we insist that we ARE, in fact fat, or goddamnit, yes they are too sagging, and I’m not putting my shirt back on till you agree with me!

“Baby, your boobs are fine. They’re not sagging.” He gives one an affectionate squeeze and walks past me. I should be happy with his approval.

“Goddamnit, yes they are!”

But I should give him a little credit. It's not like they've sunken dramatically. Cause, aging moves kinda like continental drift: slowly BUT surely. It doesn't happen overnight, but eventually the once young and tightly unified Pangea will spread into the seven problem continents of wrinkles, graying hair, failing eyesight, swelling ass, drying eggs, and a few I’d rather not mention. (Causing tidal waves and earthquakes of frustration like this one, as they carve their course across my epidermis.) But as goddess of my own continents, I’m must bear the burden of omnipotence. And thus, be aware of every millimeter of progression, as my once twenty-two year old perkies decend further and further to my knees.

Happy fucking birthday to me.