A Tale from the Booby Hatch

Over the course of losing over fifty pounds, I expected to lose at proportionally the same rate over my entire body.  Or, perhaps, that the places with the largest fat deposits would lose the most.  But, to my dismay, it seems to me that at least half the departing adipose tissue disappeared from my breasts.

      How was it I didn’t notice my tatas vanishing?  Firstly, I was distracted by the elation of seeing less desirable portions of my anatomy shrinking.  And it happened slowly, insidiously, exactly like two bean bags, each with a few stitches torn from the seam, that gradually deflated over the course of a year;  becoming a pair of limp, drooping, pathetic, almost-empty sacks attached to my chest.  At my age I wasn’t expecting to end up with the figure of a nude model, but this is downright distressing.

       Yes, I went from a size 44 brassiere to a 38, but what was once a comfortable C-cup is now…  Well, I can only say that I have not been this embarrassed of my bosom since I was twelve years old, when all the other girls in the gym class locker room were starting to wear bras and I was still wearing Carters undershirts.  If it had just been a matter of my young self looking busty while wearing clothes, a bra stuffed with two pairs of rolled socks would have given the right impression, but not in the total-honesty environment of the locker room.  Lack of hooters at the age of twelve is normal, though, and what I have dangling from my upper torso now is not.  I could be very happy with my prepubescent figure now, rather than a pair of skin flaps.

By fastening my old bras on the inmost set of hooks I can still wear them, diameter-wise, but have to almost accordion-pleat my teats to get them aligned to push the cups out to where they should be.  Then I put on a shirt, and mooosh!  Baggy bra cups.  Horrors!  Worse yet, the largest of my old bras have room for my poor withered boobies to ooze out the bottom, as if they were semi-liquid, over the course of an hour or so.  Since this makes me somewhat anxious about catching them in my waistband, I bought a couple of ‘sports bras,’ which my friends nickname ‘uniboob bras.’  The source of this moniker is still not that obvious to me, as my pendulous skin sacks just flatten against my chest entirely and vanish.  My problem with sports bras is the constant fear that people are going to address me as ‘sir.’

I try to look on the bright side.  Next time I go for a mammogram, there will be no pinching.  I doubt the plates of the ‘ice vise’ adjust close enough together to pinch two layers of skin with no stuffing between them.  Come to think of it, I’ll just suggest I pull them outwards with a strong light under them and the doctor will be able to see everything she needs to.

As for my feminine curves… Can anyone loan me a pair of rolled socks?

Valentine's Day Love Triangle

       Shortly after I started filling my bird feeders in early winter, I was delighted to see a female cardinal eating.  They are favorites of mine, with a subtle beauty that pleases my artistic senses better than the gaudy males’ plumage.  This one hung around all winter, and I gave her the not-very-original name Mrs. Cardinal.  As time passed, I began to feel sorry for her, as it seemed “Mrs.” was not the correct honorific for her.  Where was her mate?  Had she ever had one?  Poor thing, all alone in the world!

Around the middle of December I finally glimpsed a male cardinal in the yard.  At last, a suitor for Mrs. Cardinal!  The problem was, they totally ignored each other.  Among the flocks of juncos, woodpeckers, and chickadees feeding all around them, they were the only birds of their kind using my feeding area, but seemed unaware of that fact.  Now the question was, were they waiting for spring and the urgings of their hormones, or was she just playing hard-to-get?

It was on Valentine’s Day I finally saw them interacting.  They were within a foot of each other, alone on my ground-feeding spot.  She was watching him as he pecked at a sunflower seed, cocked his head at her, and began to hunker down, almost assuming the baby-bird-begging-for-food position that is a large part of the courtship ritual for many birds.

“Aww!”  I thought.  “Mrs. Cardinal is finally going to get her Mister, and on Valentine’s Day, too!  Love is in the air.”

That’s when things got complicated.  A fluttering in a nearby sapling drew my eye.  To my surprise, there was a second female cardinal there.  Was it my imagination, or was she looking daggers at the tableau on the ground?  I distinctly heard the “dramatic discovery” organ music of an old soap opera.  Then she launched into flight and dive-bombed Mrs. Cardinal.  Or should I now call her, Miss Cardinal, the interloper in what was obviously a long-established marriage?  The “other woman!”  Miss Cardinal flew away, and the Missus rounded on her mate with battering wings.

“You cad!  Two-timing me, are you?  Take this, and this!”  She goaded the poor hen-pecked (are female cardinals called “hens,” I wonder?) male into flight, buzzing and berating him as they left.

The tragedy-laden closing music of the soap opera swells, as I wonder what lies in store for Mr. Cardinal after his momentary surrender to temptation;  And, did Miss Cardinal know she was luring a married man into infidelity?  Will she ever find love?  I may never know the answer, for even if their soap opera continues, it’s not likely to be where I can watch.

I was left with a smile on my face, though, for the privilege of enjoying a Valentine’s Day Special, Potter County style.