Patty & Selma

I very happily work in an office with three other lovely women, whom I adore.  We are all 28 years old and in similar stages of life.  We get the work done, but we also have a lot of fun.  They make going to work everyday pretty awesome.  The great thing about working in an office with all girls your age is that no topics are off limits.  Cramps, periods, man troubles, Real Housewives - bring it on.  This includes my boobs apparently. 

I recently had a conversation with a co-worker that went like this:

Co-worker: Oh my gosh, do you remember the other day when we were talking about your boobs?

me:  What?  No.

Co-worker:  Yeah, you, me, other co-worker...we were standing over there and I said..."

me:  Um, no, I wasn't part of that conversation.

Co-worker:  You weren't?  Huh.

me:  Are you trying to tell me right now that you and X had an independent conversation about my boobs in the office?  Is that what you're saying?

Co-worker (laughing):  No!  No!  You were there!

me:  Nope.  You guys just stand around talking about my boobs apparently.

Co-worker:  Oh, man.  Is this sexual harassment?

me:  Yes.  Yes, it is. 

This is not the first time this has happened to me.  They just get attention.  Cannot be contained.  They once flashed the aide of a U.S. Congressman on their own accord and without my knowledge.  We were conducting what I thought was a job interview that was going pretty swimmingly.  Then I went to the bathroom and found that the buttons on my blouse had given up some time earlier, they were fighting a losing battle after all, and I had just been chatting away, talking about my professionalism and attention to detail, with my black lace clad boobs hanging out for everyone and their mother to get a good look. 

To his credit, I did not get that job. 

I've written before about how they're a favorite Truth or Dare topic.

I've also written before about my determination to keep them up, high and proud, where the sun can reach them.

If I had the guts to get a reduction I'd totally do it.  Almost every single friend of mine has asked to be injected with the leftovers should I ever go through with it.  The answer is yes.  Yes to everyone.  There's plenty to go around.  To my great dismay. 

I Wouldn't Mind So Much if I Had Any Hope That You Eventually Reach an Age at which the Breakouts Stop

I have become concerned of late that two very good friends of mine have not been getting the support they need lately.  This realization coupled with the fact that my own mother, my own mother, referred to me recently as almost 30 (which makes her almost 60: suck it), has motivated me to take action. 

Friends, I have purchased a sleeping bra.  Patty and Selma are rather large, you see, and I can no longer allow them their freedom as they are starting (only ever so slightly) to be bored with their current surroundings and have a notion to go a-wandering.  I cannot allow it.  I don't mind them carrying on a friendly conversation with my navel from a distance, but they shan't be allowed to meet. 

Hopefully, providing 24 hour support will stop gravity from doing its nasty work.  It will also provide me some small comfort should the need to run from an intruder ever arise, since I will be spared the indignity of making my police report with my arms crossed self-consciously.  Only good can come of this. 

Next: my recommendations for wrinkle creams, girdles, and support hose.