Oct

17

Elasticity

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I was watching Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead a couple weeks ago and there are multiple scenes where Marisa Tomei is wearing nothing more than a trailing bedsheet while she does something girlishly sexy like screw in an earring or flip her hair around and I couldn’t help noticing that her breasts, like, defy gravity.

I mean they actually point upward, each nipple bouncing joyously towards the ceiling. The rest of her body is flawlessly Hollywood-slender and probably pummeled into shape via Pilates and lettuce wraps, but what the hell, the woman was born in 1964, please explain how she has the boobs of a teenager.

My own personal chest region . . . well, two pregnancies and some weight gain/loss throughout the years haven’t been kind. When I get undressed, my boobs essentially drop to the floor and roll merrily under the nearest large piece of furniture. I have to buy those multiple-hook bras with thick straps and bolstered edges, and the one time I tried a pushup bra it was like trying to cram a bread pudding into a thimble.

Clothing designers are by and large an evil lot whose lifelong purpose involves frustrating the people that buy their wares — why else would I have four different sizes in my closet — but there is something particularly cruel going on with necklines these days. I can’t wear a plunging neckline because no one wants to see my, ah, sagging ruins, or the top of my sturdy, German-designed utilitarian bra, and I can’t wear a single item of clothing that requires a strapless bra (or worse, no bra at all), and let me tell you, there are not many pretty dresses out there designed with the gravity-challenged woman in mind.

I can tell you from experience that you can make a lot of changes to your body with diet and exercise, but all the pushups in the world won’t lift something that’s long since lost its boinga boinga, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

So tell me, should the finances ever align in my favor, do you think there’s anything wrong with marching into a plastic surgeon’s office and asking that they give me Marisa Tomei’s tits? I’m all done having babies and I hope I’m all done expanding and contracting, for the most part. From here on out, these sweater-puppies are nothing more than an adornment, so, you know, I’m just thinking it would be nice if they didn’t touch the tops of my shoes when I bend over.

Seriously, would you ever get plastic surgery? On the one hand, it sort of goes against the whole befriend-your-body thing I’ve been embracing lately; on the other, I WANT NEW BOINGA.

Oct

16

Remember

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I spent my evening tonight sniveling over old family videos, in particular the ones of Riley when he was a wee kidlet.

Oh god, I can’t believe he used to be so little. Also, I can’t even listen to the first part of that music without bursting into tears.

He grew up so FAST, and I know that’s what people always say, that they grow up so fast, but why the fuck does it have to be so painfully, ridiculously true? I cannot think of Dylan growing up like this. I just can’t.

Heh. I’d like to give my past self a high-five for not caving and instead capturing some unfeeling video of my child’s trauma.

No. No, I just can’t believe Dylan’s going to be this old, and all too soon. Shut up, okay? SAY IT ISN’T SO.

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