Updated: Aug. 13, 2015
Originally Published: Aug. 1, 2011
Once upon a time, my breasts were like loyal little soldiers. They listened to every command, stood at attention, and rarely needed any guidance. They faced the world with unwavering trustworthiness.
But after nursing five kids, I began to notice a bit of insurrection brewing. My once obedient bosom started to sag—well beyond what I considered acceptable. At this point, they could practically be rolled up like a burrito, and every morning’s dressing ritual felt like I was preparing a Thanksgiving turkey. “At attention”? Forget it. They’ve become so lazy that when I finally manage to stuff them into place, they seem to point in every direction imaginable. Now, my final mirror check before heading out includes making sure one isn’t trying to make a break for it. It’s like a game of “Where’s Waldo?” for anyone looking at my chest. The struggle is real!
Yet, none of this compares to my boobs’ ultimate act of rebellion.
I have a habit of purchasing Groupons—lots of them. I buy them, forget about them, and then scramble to use them right before they expire. Recently, I bought a massage for my birthday but forgot to schedule it until the last minute. The only available therapist? A rather handsome masseur, or as I like to think of him, my “mansuesse.” Pre-kids, I was all about booking with a mansuesse. They’ve got strong hands, deliver just the right amount of pressure, and best of all, they keep quiet for an hour!
However, now I felt the need to warn him: “Five kids… the old gal isn’t what she used to be.” Still, I bravely booked my appointment, hoping for the best.
The massage started wonderfully. My mansuesse asked what I wanted, and after that, it was blissful silence. I was finally relaxed, lying on my back as he worked on my neck and shoulders. That’s when everything went south.
As he lifted my arm to massage my shoulders, my previously well-behaved breast decided to stage a surprise escape, popping right out from under the covers. Back in the day, my boobs would never have budged. But today? They were ready for their grand entrance. I swear I could hear George Michael crooning “Freedom” in the background while my rebellious chest clamored for attention.
I lay there, frozen in shock for what felt like an eternity, but was probably just a second, contemplating my next move. Denial seemed the best option. “If I keep my eyes closed and ignore the situation, maybe he won’t notice,” I thought. Not that these aren’t ‘DD’ cups we’re talking about—more like giant cereal bowls full of Jello Jigglers! It would be impossible to miss. Still, I maintained my act of pretending everything was normal, repeating to myself, “Just keep breathing.”
Meanwhile, I cursed my unruly bosom and swore off massages for life. Thankfully, my tactful mansuesse quickly lowered my arm and discreetly pulled the blanket up, covering my escapee. I could almost hear my breasts sigh in relief as they returned to their confines. I’m pretty sure this experience scarred my poor mansuesse for life.
When my hour ended, and I’d wrestled my way back into my clothing, I emerged from the massage room ready for the worst. Instead, I was greeted with a glass of water and a question I never saw coming: “Would you like to book your next appointment?” Shock was written all over my face. I quickly cursed my rebellious boobs again, told myself to toughen up, and booked my next massage—right after leaving a hefty sympathy tip.
This experience has taught me to expect the unexpected when it comes to my breasts. Who knows where they might pop out next? But hey, I’ll keep going back for massages, because honestly, what’s the worst that could happen? Just a little giggle every time he raises the sheets a bit higher, that’s all. Well played, defiant boobs. Well played.
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Summary:
The author humorously recounts a massage experience that went awry thanks to her rebellious breasts, reflecting on the changes motherhood brings while embracing the unexpected.