Once upon a time, my breasts were the epitome of reliability. They stayed precisely where I wanted them, always standing at attention with minimal fuss. In short, they were dependable. But after nursing five children, I noticed a rebellion brewing. They began to droop, far beyond any standard I considered acceptable. Now, they can be rolled up like a burrito, and the dressing routine each morning resembles stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey. They are never “at attention” and I can’t even call them “at ease.” They have become so relaxed that, once positioned, they can be pointed in any direction imaginable. My final mirror check before leaving the house now includes assessing for a lazy boob eye. It’s a struggle to focus, and I can only imagine the confusion of any innocent bystander.
Amidst all this defiance, my breasts staged their ultimate act of rebellion during a massage. I’m a fan of Groupons—buying them, forgetting about them, and then rushing to use them before they expire. I had purchased a Groupon for a massage for my birthday and, true to form, forgot to book until the last minute. The only available option was a male masseuse, whom I like to refer to as my “mansuesse.” Pre-kids, I loved booking a session with a mansuesse for their strong hands and the blissful silence they provided for an entire hour. Now, however, I felt the need to prepare him for what he was about to encounter: “Five kids… the old grey mare isn’t what she used to be.” Still, I bravely made the appointment and hoped for the best.
Initially, all was well. My mansuesse asked about my preferences, and once the massage began, I didn’t hear a peep from him for the entire hour. It was pure bliss. Just as I was drifting into relaxation, the infamous boobtrayal occurred. As he lifted my arm while massaging my shoulders, one of my breasts—previously tucked discreetly under the covers—decided to make a bold escape. In a moment of sheer horror, I heard George Michael’s “Freedom” echoing in the background as my rebellious bosom made its grand entrance.
I lay still, contemplating my next move. Denial seemed like the best option. If I kept my eyes closed and never acknowledged the escaped breast, could I convince myself it didn’t happen? I laid there, forcing myself to breathe steadily, attempting to appear as though I were simply a sleeping client. I’m sure my mansuesse didn’t buy it for a second, but I clung to the hope that he wouldn’t notice either. The ridiculousness of my strategy was evident, considering we weren’t talking about little ‘A’ cups here, but rather post-baby ‘DD’ cups—impossible to overlook!
It took mere seconds for my tactful mansuesse to lower my arm and pull the blanket back into place, nearly up to my neck. I could almost hear my breasts sighing in relief as they were returned to their confines. I’m pretty sure that brief glimpse of rebellion scarred him for life. Yet when the hour was up, and I had reestablished order, I left the room searching for signs of horror on his face. Instead, I was met with a glass of water and the last question I expected: “Would you like to book your next appointment?” Shock washed over me as I cursed my breasts again and decided to book another session—right after leaving a generous sympathy tip.
This experience taught me to be prepared for the unexpected when it comes to my body. Who knows where my breasts might pop out next? But I plan to continue getting massages from the same man. After all, what’s left to lose? I can’t help but chuckle every time he pulls the sheets a little higher.
Well done, defiant breasts. Well done indeed.
Further Reading
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Summary
This whimsical recounting reflects on the author’s experience with her changing body after having five children, particularly focusing on the humorous trials involving her breasts during a massage. Despite the unexpected moments of defiance, she embraces the chaos of motherhood and the unpredictability of her body, ultimately finding humor in the situation.