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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

MySpace Essay

Submitted: June 16, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 16, 2018




Current mood: amused



By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, A. Kern  October, 2006



Now THAT got your attention allll fired up, dinnit? 


Well, I am flat out bummed, my Friends, about the mammary quandary in which I continue to find myself today.


You see, before my "nerve episode" in '97, and the toxic, freaking meds (legendary fat packers of all time) the docs crammed down my unwilling gullet, I was a fairly flat-chested, petite, slender chick of about 115 pounds.  After five years of the martial arts discipline TaeKwonDo, the Guinevere muscles were sufficiently carved. Woe of concupiscent woes, most of my men/spouses often commented on my sad Lack of Rack.  And forget the gams. I was cursed with the Helvetican, R. Crumb babe's stocky legs, and, believe it or nay, triple-ankles.  Yes, odd as it sounds, I have three ankles above each foot, which bony abnormality provides me with a far wider rotation than your average hooman bean's pod, just so I can climb Swiss mountain ranges without sliding down backwards like a billy goat on 'ludes. Although, at this point, the counter-balancing weight of my knockers might render my peregrinations a study in hysterics.


But if you ask me, a woman who sucked at all sports except TaeKwonDo, gymnastics, jogging and aerobics, boobs were items I really preferred to be hanging off other women's chest walls. In sportish pursuits, monster bazoobahs just get in the way. Trust me, they so do.  They're everywhere I want to be.


Because, alas, thanks to the hormone altering effects of the anti-epileptics meds, I now have large, annoying tatties and I detest them.  Accustomed to being pear-shaped – with a major bee-stung butt, thin waist and itty-bitty titties -- I miraculously, at the age of 42, lost my abundant derriere and gained a rather pronounced Upper Story. As if these encumbrances decided to trade places, just for the Big of it.


Once, I pranced about, jumped and spun and hopped my way through Cindy Crawford's workout video and had no need of an Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holder. I was one of those bra burners back in the day who was only too grateful to lose those uncomfortable, underwire, and padded, miserable articles of delicate lingerie.  My third husband bullied me into wearing one every day, control freak that he was.  My fourth ex told me I was free to toss them all into the nearest dumpster, which I did. There is something to say for the European idea of physical freedom. Just don't ask me to stop shaving my legs. My Liberalism has limits; Cave Woman 'pits, calves and shins are disgusting, as far as I am concerned.


My daughter assures me I need a bra, now. Preferably one which makes my boobs resemble two melons on a platter, ready to be served up to the lascivious gaze of males.  I hear they "lift and separate" these days. You good peeps have seen my photos. Why don't the shrinks just hand me a colorful, low-cut, Bavarian costume and six mugs of St. Paulie Girl brewskis and send me to the nearest Oktoberfest biergarten? Not for me the Red Carpet fashionistas who slither and saunter around in their slinky finery, breasts popping out for all to behold.


I can't begin to illume for you, my dear Readers, how dreadfully much I loathe brasseries.  I suspect the Marquis de Sade invented these torturous devices, in addition to whalebone corsets and garter belts. They itch; they pinch; they scratch; they drive me half-whack with their constrictive structure. Instead of a sprightly Ganymede, I have become womanly. Ack, so not me. This is offensive on a grand scale, not to mention expensive, since my former stockpile of lacey panties no longer fit my new, miniscule butt and my dresses could not contain these beastly breasts. I don't want to be Sophia Loren (lovely as she is); I yearn to be a stick figure like Kate Moss.  Praying nightly to the Goddess of Flat Terrain has produced no results, whatsoever.


And you ought to see me jogging NOW, ample bosoms bouncing all over the Universe under my shirt, like two planets battling it out over stellar space.  If you forgo the sports bra, the pain after exertion is beyond description – words fail even moi, the woman whose sesquipedalian English vocabulary is impressive, indeed.


They tell me women even PAY money, lots and lots o'jingle, to own boobs such as I managed, against my will, to acquire for the price of mind-numbing medication.  Ye GODS.  How could any woman WANT this torso torment on a permanent basis? Someone give me a rocket launcher and a Maidenform SAM, because some sunnuvabeeyotch shrink is going to DIE.  LOL


I did not desire any adjustments to my physiognomy, thank you. All I ask is the ability to do a cartwheel without the Earth moving under my feet.


Yes, I am aware that many males find such a curvy, concupiscent figure sexy (whatever THAT is) and desirable. Well, I am convinced such an opinion is due to the fact that you all don't have to WEAR them, on a daily basis, like a suit of Madonna bullet armor you can never remove, even after the Sickle-wielding, Caped Crusader of Demise comes to claim your lush life.  Prolly everyone will be staring at them, even as I am laid out in my glorious, mahogany coffin in my Victorian Funeral Parlor. I plan on asking my spawnettes to cover ME entirely with red roses, never mind my casket.


What is a full-figured gal to do? I try to don attire, loose, large and concealing. But the men are never deceived.  They are boob-seeking missiles, with Superman x-ray eyes, like those fake-y pinwheel glasses they used to advertise in the back of Magician magazines. (See through clothes!) There ain't no hiding these.


I cannot even enjoy a convo with a resident man without his eyes moving (rather speedily) from my eerie green eyes and Red Jagger Lips, to my cleavage.  He continues to feign interest in Guinevere's stimulating orations, but I know what he's really thinking: how fast can I remove her baggy, Donnie Darko T-Shirt?


Just to demonstrate HOW furious I am at my pdocs and their Boob-enhancing drugs, I painted a very large nude portrait of myself. I have displayed it in several art shows, and you ought to hear the (if you'll pardon the expression) tittering and commentary which goes on when the art loving crowd "crushes in to see" your May Westian Author in the buff. Of course, modest me holds my palette strategically over my lower regions, if you will.


Or, even if you won't.


"My GOD," stammered my former Boss after viewing the show, "You're STACKED. Why do hide that behind those ugly, fat sweaters? Let me buy you some hot dresses with low necklines."


Yeahhh, Buddy – that'll happen. In HELL.


I also rebelled by purchasing only TWO bras, at the Salvation Army, no less. Oh, yes, one of my children gave me a costly PINK bra for Christmas one year, said bra encrusted with artful lace and perky, little bows. I only wear these on Sundays, the day of Rest, after all. I even received instructions, via a women's magazine, on how one should seek out and purchase a proper-fitting bra. The description of how we are to apply these undergarments makes me want to hurl.  You don't want to know. Really.  I don't have to measure SQUAT to see that these mammary glands are around the 36 D range.


It is mortifying, I tell you, mortifying.


I nursed three babies with my infinitesimal tits -- no problems at all. Worse yet, no medical person can explain to me why this tragedy has now afflicted me.  The limpid-brained Romance novels don't help one whit, with their references to "heaving bosoms" and "ample cleavage."


They're heavy, too. Did I mention that?  They're heavy and my back aches from trying to hoist them aloft. When I lean over to do the forward fold in Yoga, I FALL over. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but not much of one.


The concept of Materialism, "what my senses reveal to me through touch and feel is most real; all else is less real," and the Cartesian philosophy of Dualism: "I am me, in here, and everything else is "out there," both apply to my twin sources of human nourishment. Men want to touch and feel and these bobbling boobies are really out there.


Heave THIS.

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