So a Sunday morning seems about as good a time as ever to discuss fake breasts.
And for the record, I am neither pro nor con fake breasts. I am merely fascinated by them. Awed by their presence. Humbled by their pronounced prominence.
I think it’s weird that I’m so fascinated by them, given that I have always liked men. But take, for example, this one lady at the gym on Wednesday. There she was, her fit little self all spandexy and lululemoned out, even cute bright-colored workout shoes. Yet what was even more impressive than her get-up were her headlights. I am not kidding: perfect shape, perfect position, perfect nipples pointing straight out, rather than one aiming a little left-ward and the other maybe a little southward, as nipples are wont to do. It was hard not to be impressed by these girls.
“Hey, Boss,” I whispered to Husbandio. “Check out that lady. The one with the cute shoes. And for the record, I’ll understand if you want to be partnered up with her for those tubing exercises. I really will . . . I kind of want to be partnered up with her.”
Husbandio glanced around, all cool and casual. Then he turned back to me, shaking his head. “I can’t see her.” He pointed to his eyes. “I’m not wearing my contacts.”
Which was cool in that it meant maybe he would choose to partner up with me after all! But also not cool because I’m sorry, when I see breasts that fake and perfect, I like to discuss it with someone, even if it is mi husbandio.
Sweetie once asked me, “Mama, when am I going to get breast mints like yours?” After explaining that breath mints are what I eat in the car when I realized I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth, while breast mints are . . . well are not exactly anything, I realized that I didn’t know if she wanted to get them, or if she feared getting them. Breasts and all breast-related baggage, can be complicated, no? Did Sweetie already sense those complications?
So maybe that’s part of my fascination. Maybe breasts and all their societal significance add to my curiosity, to the intrigue. Are there other women out there (you, for example) who are equally intrigued by the implants of others? And come on, are breast implants really any different than buying a padded, push-up, gel-cupped bra that promises to add TWO WHOLE SIZES? I don’t know. But I wonder . . .
I also wonder if next time we attend this particular class, Husbandio will come prepared, wearing his contacts. I kind of think he’d be nutters not to.