38 Long is the new 38C

I’ve always been one of those natural chicks… never really saw the need for a boob job. It just seemed odd to me, having someone stuff plastic chicken cutlets into my body… let’s face it… mostly for someone else’s enjoyment. I guess they’re all they’re cracked up to be, when it comes to self-esteem. But my self-esteem has always been pretty low, and no amount of stuffing was going to help that mess. So it seemed like a futile endeavor.

I spoke out equally against any and all cosmetic procedures. In retrospect, I wish there was a way to reach back into time and slap a generous amount of duct tape over my dumbass mouth. What an idiot. Of course I didn’t see the need… with my perfect, unlined skin and perky tits. What a moron.

national-geog

Photo: National Geographic

This month I’m having one of those year-before-a-monumental birthdays. I’ll save you the guesswork… 49. I’ll be forty-fucking-nine years old. What. the. hell? How did that happen? I remember being in my 20’s like it was yesterday. Ok, that’s a total lie. But I was an idiot then… we’ve already discussed that. So there’s honestly no need to remember that decade. I remember my wedding… that’s all I need from my 20’s. Well, wait a sec. It would be nice to remember my 21st birthday. From what I understand, I had a great time. But that’s not a memory I’ve ever had, nor ever hope to regain. I’ll have to enjoy the epic tales, and leave it at that.

Now as I look in the mirror, I’m seeing an old person. Who IS that? And why the fuck are her tits down there?! I’m beginning to wrap my mind around the value of cosmetic surgery. I’m not saying I’ll rush out and get me a set of Dolly Partons. But hey, ladies, now I get it. For the moment, I’ll embrace this new me. Yes. A 38 Long is the new 38 C. Ya. I said embrace it, not like it. I’m not on crack, people. They’re not quite to National Geographic standards. But I may have to do something about this. And don’t even get me started on the gravity vs. my ass war. *goes to do some squats*

Perhaps I’ll start small with this whole me vs. aging thing. I can’t see a photo of myself lately without fixating on what my husband calls my forehead vagina. Ya, you’re right. It’s very bold of him, considering I have control of his food supply. *evil grin* He claims it gives me character. Ya. Well so do my saggyass tits. But I’ll bet he’d be all over the idea of me getting those back to their former glory. *pffft*

I’m thinking for my year-before-the-monumental-birthday, I’ll see about getting rid of one of my vaginas. I’ll keep the useful one. I see this as a win for my husband. Right? Then perhaps next year I’ll start thinking about a hoister for the girls. Again, another win for my husband. And since his birthday is the day before mine, I suppose I can call it his gift, and still request that sweet convertible for my birthday. I can totally see this logic working in my favor.

They say that 50 is the new 40. I guess that means 50 is now the age that things really start going to hell in a hand basket? Alright then, bitch. Game on. I’ve got one more year to be the new 39. And then the war begins. Fuck you, 25-year-old me. I get it now. I totally get it.

 

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