If you are easily offended, you should probably skip this post. Of course, if you are easily offended, you probably aren’t reading a blog called “Mange Merde” anyways. Unless, of course, you don’t have access to a French-English dictionary.
I like to think that I still look reasonably good, and in relatively good shape, for a woman of my age. (Of course, I also like to think that Tinkerbell and the Good Humour man are my next door neighbors, and that the owls really are what they seem, so clearly what I like to think has no bearing on reality.)
Anyways, yesterday, as I was looking at myself in the mirror, I contemplated whether I might want to get my breasts lifted at some future point in my life. Because, you know, clearly they have not gotten with the “looking reasonably good for their age” program.
I didn’t give that thought a second thought until today, when I was again looking at myself in the mirror (hey, I was brushing my teeth, alright?) when I suddenly thought “why on earth would I ever have thought of having them nipped and tucked?” (Mind you, I was never seriously considering it, it was just a passing thought, but the ludicriousness of that passing thought struck me nonetheless.)
These breasts have nursed two children through a combined total of seven and a half years!
They have eased babies and toddlers through bumps and scrapes. They have comforted our son through a badly broken arm. They have kept an infant quiet through entire movies.
They have lulled my children to sleep for more than 2,500 nights (top that, Scheherazade!)
They have given both of my children the absolute best start in life.
Fix them?
Hell, no. They’re not broken! And I’m darned proud of them.
I’ve been there, done that (in the exact order of thought, that is!)
Came away with the same conclusion, glad to have the privilege of nursing my children. Heck, breasts are more than objects of beauty, they are functional, and I used them well!
I discovered that’s part of the reason why Victoria’s Secret is well known to all, they can definitely re-position sagging parts.
There is nothing ugly about saggy breasts! To me there is nothing more attractive than a mature woman with soft, pendulous, waist-hanging breasts who feels good enough about herself to go braless. She is proud, defiant — does not buy into the culture of youth. She knows that her breasts are not ugly, floppy old bags, but a sensuous, beautiful part of who she is — to be celebrated, appreciated and enjoyed.
(I’m a 64 year old man and believe women are wonderful, beautiful beings at every stage of life)
As a former one of these aforementioned babies that benefitted off of your apparently now-pendulous breasts; I thank you and say “Get ’em done!!” You gave good years to your children; so now it is time to indulge and spoil yourself.
Memories last a lifetime – breasts do not.
I feel compelled to point out that there is nothing pendulous on my body. I at no time used that term. And, in fact, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the composition of my body is not only simply age-appropriate, but it’s actually *better* than age appropriate, and generally better than that of the average person my age, particularly one who has not undergone any sort of cosmetic surgery (nor will I).