This morning I saw a number on my scale that I haven't seen since mid-February. Haven't seen in a good way. I am becoming incredibly superstitious in my attempts not to jinx this weight loss.
I am also excited that my reign as The Amazing Six Breasted Woman may at long last be over.
As my readers know -- well, as anyone with eyes who has seen the pictures on this page knows -- I have breastage. Serious breastage. The 38DD kind. The kind that does not change with weight loss or fat loss.
I've been well endowed since the fifth grade. I remember making my mother take me bra shopping around age 10, when almost all my friends all needed their first bras, only to find out that I didn't have enough breast to fit into an A cup. Or whatever was below an A cup. (It's like the minor leagues.) I remember doing those stupid "we must we must we must increase our bust exercises" for months afterwards. I remember giving up, figuring I'd be like my mom who told me she was as flat as an ironing board until she was 16. I remember thinking I was probably lucky not to be like one friend of mine who was a C cup in the fourth grade. I vividly remember another friend coming up to me in class during the 5th grade and telling me I better get into a bra, pronto. I'd forgotten about it so well that they'd not only sprouted, they'd taken off. I was a B cup shortly thereafter and a C cup well before the end of high school. By law school I was a D and I've been a 38DD since, oh, around 1993.
I was a C at my lowest all-time adult weight (up to age 20) (this is also more or less my goal weight) so I have little hope that, sans surgery, the girls will ever be small. A D may be the best I can ever hope for. And I'm mostly okay with that.
But what I really want to get rid of are the two auxiliary racks lurking below my primary rack.
What I refer to as my ferret when I'm standing becomes a second set of breasts when I'm sitting. Granted, it's a uniboob, but still. There's a C cup directly below my DDs.
Oh, and if that weren't bad enough, thanks to my apple genetics I've got another uniboob below that one. That one, below the waistband of my jeans but above the coochie, is a B. B for bastards!
When I sit, I am The Amazing Six Breasted Woman. Or maybe The Three Rack Woman. I think the first one has more flair though. It would definitely look better on a business card. Or maybe as the new title of this blog (I've been thinking about it.... Tales of The Amazing Six Breasted Woman!)
Thankfully, although the primary breastage is not shrinking one little bit, the tertiary breastage is. It too was once a C, forcing me up into the size 16 jeans at one point. Now, thanks to paleo, it's down to a B and getting smaller every day. I walk around fondling my abdomen just to make sure that it hasn't suddenly reinflated. The secondary breastage also seems to be getting smaller, although not as noticeably.
So, when the image of a big, juicy burger just won't go away, instead I look down at my breasts. All six of them. And I dream about the day when someone says to me "Nice rack!" and I will no longer feel the need to clarify which one they're talking about.