Do You Hate Your Boobs Too?

I don’t understand boobs.

They start out innocently enough, with their perky, come-hither perch and slight, unobtrusive nipples, (really? “nipples”? Could we have called them something slightly less creepy maybe?), and they do provide life-sustaining nourishment to our kiddoes for a time. But once all that magic is done with, boobs become useless dangling appendages, like an appendix, but on the outside, and therefore much easier to accidentally catch in a zipper.

Dear evolution: I am not impressed.

Sadly, I feel I might be alone in this sentiment. Once, when I was about 13, I attended a slumber party with a few friends. At one point they all went topless, showing off their freshly-minted boobies, jumping around in front of the mirror like giggling lunatics, smashing them together to see who could make the most cleavage, something they unquestionably did not possess one year prior. I was the only one who kept my shirt on, and instead sat on the edge of the bed pretending I wasn’t completely mortified. Was every girl but me obsessed with her boobs?

Maybe my irritation with boobs arose because, truth be told, I’ve never liked my boobs. The left side was always slightly larger than the right, but not in a good way. It was kind of tuby, like a sock, with a giant nip on the end of it. And the right one was like an ant-hill, but still with the huge nip. I have no idea what cleavage feels like.

Well, one time I almost had cleavage. Lucas was an infant and my husband and I had some friends visiting from out of town. We stayed up late playing Charades, and for some reason baby Lucas didn’t wake up for his usual midnight feeding, so my boobs just kept filling fuller and fuller with milk. Normally I would’ve pumped, but since we had guests, I didn’t want to miss any of the fun, so I just let those suckers keep filling up. I kept looking down at myself exclaiming, “Holy crap you guys! My boobs have never been so big! Look at them! JUST LOOK AT THEM!” Not since Mardi Gras had I wanted to flash my boobs so badly. I shouted “LOOK AT MY BOOBS” so many times that my friend finally told me to quit talking about my damn boobs already. So I guess I liked my boobs for like, two hours of my entire life.

Speaking of breast-feeding… that was a real game-changer for me. I know I should appreciate my boobs more now that I’ve experienced the miracle of keeping each of my children alive with no other tools besides my own body. But… is all the pain really necessary? Evolutionarily speaking, wouldn’t it have made more sense for breast-feeding not to feel like the monster from alien had latched on to my poor little delicate nips and angrily shook its head like a rabid dog? Must breastfeeding be so painful? And before you tell me that I was doing it wrong, no I was f*#king not. I had multiple lactation consultants check my kids’ latches, and every single one of them said their latches were perfect. I just have really sensitive nips, and I assure you I’m not the only one. For lots of women, breastfeeding just motherf*#king hurts, so please, all you awesomely crunchy, thick-skinned, jungle-women, stop telling us delicate-nipped ladies that we’re doing it wrong. We’re already jealous of you and that sh*t hurts our feelings.

Also, if it wasn’t bad enough that breastfeeding was painful, now I’m left with a couple of deflated balloons. And not the regular round ones, either. The long ones, the kind clowns use to make giraffes and airplanes. My boobs are foldable, you guys. Is there a contest for boob-folding? What’s the prize, because if it’s a good one I’m gonna enter and win the hell out of that contest.

Oh and also, I’m so sorry husband, but please don’t touch my boobs. Ever since I experienced the joys of breastfeeding, my nips are like open wounds, and quite frankly I’d rather slam my head in a door than let you caress them. SO NO TOUCHY. I know it’s not your fault, honey, but- oh wait, yes it is. It’s totally your fault! Nevermind, I’m not sorry.

At least when my boobs were tiny and practically non-existent, they were inconspicuous. I could go bra-less without fear of unexpected jiggling or sudden perky nipplage accidentally turning on the poor pimple-faced schmuck at the Target check-out. Now, post breast-feeding, I am constantly aware of them; I always know they’re there. The underside of my boobs rests on my stomach for God’s sake. Earlier today, as an experiment, I tucked my cell-phone under there to see if it would hold and it totally did. Now I can finally stop worrying about where to put my phone when we go to Disney! Uh… except then I would have to be braless, so… maybe not. Disney is supposed to be G-rated, not NC-17 horror.

And oh, but how awesome would it be to exercise without boobs? Can you imagine not having to deal with sports bras? That would be heaven. No matter how expensive my sports bra, I’m still always at least slightly uncomfortable. If the sports bra is comfortable to wear, i.e. no squeezing, pinching, or asphyxiating, then my boobs are not pressed down enough to avoid “exercise flop.” And no woman likes “exercise flop.” But if my boobs are locked securely in place, there is definitely going to be some discomfort elsewhere. There’s no way a sports bra can keep those suckers immobile without squashing some other part of me that doesn’t want to be squashed. Like my back-fat.

And regular bras, well let’s be honest – they’re boob-cages, and nobody likes a cage except maybe a 22-year-old girl at a dance-club. The only thing good about bras is that when I whip mine off through my shirt-sleeve, my husband looks at me like I’m a sorceress.

Otherwise, I’d be perfectly content to bibbity bobbity boo my boobs into nonexistence. It would be so awesome if I could walk the dog in the evenings without having to decide between putting on a bra and donning a jacket, despite it being 85 degrees outside.

If boobs didn’t exist at all, I could buy clothes without worrying about whether or not my boobs will “fill out” a shirt or a dress, or whether I need to buy a separate bra or undershirt to go with the shirt I’m considering buying, since then I would have to buy two shirts, when I really only wanted to buy one. I could wear a cowl-neck at church without worrying that I’m offending someone because the shoulder slipped off and revealed my stupid boob-cage strap. I could hop in the car and go to the grocery store without having to consider which bra will best conceal my icicle nips as I’m walking through the dairy department.

I know there are many men (and quite a few women too, for that matter) who will vehemently disagree with me, but for me, the world would be a better place if boobs did not exist. I really wish there was a magic spell that could make mine disappear altogether. Even as I type these words, I shift uncomfortably in my seat trying to un-stick my under-boob from my stomach.

Anybody have a fairy godmother I could borrow?

Kristen Mae is a devoted wife and mother, ADHD momma-warrior, violist, health-nut, and writer. She is the voice of Abandoning Pretense, where her goal is to provide a community where women are free to be honest about their struggles with marriage, parenthood, and life. In addition to her blog, Mae shares hilarious and heart-warming tidbits of her life on her Facebook page, Google+, and Twitter.