The Wisdom of Youth

Disclaimer: The following post will be about breasts and undergarments. If either of these topics offend your delicate sensibilities, please come back in a week and I may have posted something else. Of course, I may not have posted anything else – my posting is a bit sparse these days. You may want to come back in two weeks.

Disclaimer 2: If discussions of breasts or undergarments make you feel all funny (like you’re sliding down a rope in gym class), please also leave now and come back in two weeks.

Not surprisingly, I have been thinking a lot about breasts these days. Mine and others’. Mostly, of course, due to best friend’s breast cancer and impending surgery. But also because as part of last weekend’s “celebration” of best friend’s breasts, we were all invited to wear our most daringly cleavage-baring shirts and show our stuff. And, well, it became clear just how relatively small my breast-related “stuff” really is.

It also became abundantly clear that I cannot handle my alcohol, but that’s another embarrassing story.

But this post is not going to be about best friend’s breasts. That’s her story to tell, and I’m merely a supportive bystander in that particular saga.

No, dear reader, in the tradition of many fine bloggers, I’m going to take a difficult situation that someone else is experiencing and make it all about me. Me, me, me, me, me.

So…my breasts.

I’ve had a long and not always appreciative relationship with my mammary glands since I first got breast buds around age 11. (Do you remember how tender those little bumps were?! Ouch!)

For most of my adolescent years, my girls were quite small. In fact, I used to wear a button on my stone-washed jean jacket that said, They may be little, but they’re all mine.

I’m not sure I even knew what that meant.

Whatever. I was clear that it was a body-celebrating button, and I wore it proudly.

And then something magical happened, I got a breast “growth spurt” around the age of 19. I hadn’t grown in height since the 6^th grade. My weight hadn’t changed, and I still wore the same clothing size, but all of a sudden I had boobies. I was a C-cup!

In my mind, C stood for curvy, comely, and captivating, and please believe that I went out and bought multiple bra and underwear sets to celebrate the girls’ new status. (Of course, this was when I only had summer jobs and most of my disposable income went to clothes, makeup, and music since my mom still provided for my basic survival needs.)

Anyway, me and my C’s went along fine for several years, and then I started doing yoga. And lo and behold, yoga will not only make your mind calm and your body strong, but it will also shrink your boobies.

Down to a B cup I went.

And that was fine. I didn’t replace any of my bras because, well, they were only a size too big and by that time I was good and cheap.

And then - even though I was undergarment negligent - SRH and I managed to do the deed occasionally, and I became pregnant. I had a baby and nursed him for 15 months, causing multiple breast size fluctuations.

After I was done nursing, I went back to the same old bras. I had finally figured out that breasts are ever-changing body parts, and I figured it was safer to use the too big bras in case I ever grew back into them. After all, bras that are too big just leave you with a bit of a breezy feeling, but too small is just uncomfortable.

But, of course, as with many women my girls actually got smaller after I was stopped nursing. Yes, smaller than a B cup. But as they were still larger than an A, I didn’t replace my old bras. (I feel like I should mention here that I had probably 25 bras to begin with, so there really were plenty to last me all those years.)

Anyway, fast forward three and a half years and give me a liver tumor.

I’m not eating. I’m losing weight – especially in the chestal region. I finally break down and buy a few bras that are “nearly B’s”. And I’ll admit: it hurt a bit - buying bras that fit. I really had to admit that I was never going to have the nice, full ta-tas that I had in the past.

But as a hedge, I only bought them at outlet malls or T.J. Maxx. I was done buying nice bras at nice stores. My little mosquito bites didn’t need the support of a good bra – and I didn’t feel like spending the money.

But then, you know what? My best friend got breast cancer, and I got some perspective. I started doing breast self-exams and looking at the girls with new eyes.

I will always have small breasts, and that’s totally okay. I’m not a big person. And while it might be nice to have a bit out front to balance my line-backer shoulders, the girls are quite nice and did a really beautiful job feeding my child. Which is, yes, what they are here for.

So tonight, I went to an actual lingerie store, and bought for real, good quality bras and underwear. And it was delightful. It was fun and pampering, and as I told SRH, “You know, I can totally get with this small breast thing. It’s much harder for ittie bitties to sag. I mean, where are they going to go?”

And so to the crux of it, which I somehow knew as a teenager but had to recently rediscover: They may be little, but they’re all mine.

Ode to Yoga Pants

Well, it’s officially Fall here in central Ohio. I don’t mean “officially” in the way of we just passed the autumnal equinox, or that the leaves are turning to gorgeous shades of oranges or reds, or even that we had a frost advisory last week. No, I mean that I have finally donned my autumn outfit de rigueur - black yoga pants and a long-sleeve white shirt.

I know it doesn’t sound very original or exciting. In fact, it sounds like an outfit to serve food in, but I somehow feel simple and classy in these clothes - although they are without a bit of color. (Don’t think I don’t hear Stacy and Quentin’s voice in my head saying, You think it’s classy? Wrong. It’s boring. You aren’t waiting tables here, lady. You’re taking your kid to preschool and the park! Let’s ACT like we have some class and buy an outfit that you can’t exercise in- maybe one that has some structure for that bottom half of yours.)

In my humble defense, these aren’t just any old yoga pants. They are the supreme yoga pants of all time – the Athleta All That Capri Pant. Lest I get carried away in hyperbole, take a look for yourself.

And since I’m not sure that the picture is clear, I will add that these pants are not gauchos. You know, gauchos - those ubiquitous pants worn by every single woman under the age of 25 right now. Gauchos - the pants that make even the thinnest women look like their behind is made from cottage cheese and their thighs are thunderous.

Oh no, these yoga pants are the boon companion of the slightly pear-shaped mama. They are forgiving of a little extra junk in the trunk and flow nicely over legs that have never been the same since pregnancy and childbirth.

I have three pair – all in black. I would buy another, but SRH might throw me out of the house. I have considered buying them in other colors, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. There’s that saying about not fixing something that isn’t broken.

A-hem…

Joyful, joyful, I adore thee,
Oh, sweet fitting yoga pants;
Drawstring waist and material flow-y,
Hail Thee as my favorite pair.
Melt the clouds of sloth and big legs,
Drive the extra pounds away;
Giver of immortal svelteness,
Wearing you lights up my day!

Okay, I think this post may have just crossed a line here – even for a blog.

Any of your clothes make you want to burst into inappropriate song?

Zane and Shoes, Not So Much

I am a woman who loves shoes. I don’t care how stereotypically feminine it is to admit this fact. I’ll say it again. I have a uterus and an overwhelming love for shoes. I always think that I need more shoes and fantasize about different shoes on my feet like other women fantasize about food or sex.

In the 80’s when Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos were toppled from power in the Philippines, I really had trouble understanding what the fuss about her 3,000 shoes was all about. (I was only 12 years old in 1986 and had little understanding about massive bribery, corruption, and class oppression, so I really missed the entire point of the argument). In my mind, though, I could completely understand loads and loads of shoes.

The other day, I tried on a pair of $600 Christian Louboutin shoes at DSW. (Actually, I tried on one shoe, the other was locked up in the back of the store someplace). To be sure, I have never even come close to buying a $600 pair of shoes – that is just too rich for my blood. But I did try that one shoe on and enjoy my 3 minutes in luxury shoe heaven.

Lucky for me, SRH is a man shoe-horse. That man really likes him some shoes. He rarely fights me on buying a pair and really gets it when I say that my needing a new pair of shoes feels like a crisis which must be resolved right away.

So imagine our mutual chagrin when it turned out that our only child, the love of our lives, Zane, does not like shoes. Rather, he only likes one pair of shoes. These shoes.

These raggedy, winter shoes which he refers to simply as Brown Shoes. Zane asks to wear Brown Shoes every day. I’m not sure if the picture is clear, but Brown Shoes are beat all to heck, they are heavy, and they are not made to go with shorts.

So, I bought him a pair of spiffy, blue sneakers to sport him up a bit.

Blue Shoes, as they are referred to at our house, are canvas-like tennis shoes that will allow his wee feet to breathe a bit and look nice in the bargain. Some days if I claim that Brown Shoes are dirty, we can get Zane to wear Blue Shoes. He looks cute as a button, but make no mistake, Blue Shoes do not take the place of Brown Shoes. Ever.

Since it’s summer and I have a very hot-blooded little boy, I crazily – what was I thinking?! - bought him a pair of sandals.

Last fall, we had the same Brown Shoe Struggle with his then-favorite sandals. The kid refused to wear any other shoes but those sandals, so in November we were sending him out of the house in the classic sock-sandal combination which has been rocking the suburbs since 1966. This year, however, he refuses to wear sandals. No Sandals is a common refrain in our house.

In fact, he’d rather wear these than his sandals.

There is a really good lesson in all this about letting go and not engaging in power struggles with your child. I’m trying to learn it, but I really want him to wear the sandals. He’s only allowed them on his feet twice. But they are his feet. That’s my new mama mantra – They are his feet. If he wants them to be hot, then that’s up to him. (See I’m totally getting this mama talk.)