There was a time, however brief, that I possessed a chest. It may not have been bountiful, but it was not board-like, either. The first sign of increased cup size manifested itself shortly before the birth of my daughter and lasted through a single suckling year. The bounty returned with my second child. Twenty months later, it is beginning to recede again as my son cuts back to a 2- or 3-times-a-day nursing schedule. Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my boobs the most.
I could be blissful in my bouncelessness if it weren’t for the knowledge that lays so heavy on my chest. Clothes looked better when I had breasts. My stomach looked flatter. There was something to play with besides my traditional toys.
I know I have nothing to complain about. That is, I have nothing, and I shouldn’t be complaining about it. The history of breast cancer in my family leaves me with a healthy respect for any amount of benign tissue. In truth, I’m fine with my status as a member of high ranking on the Itty Bitty Titty Committee.
But in this season of giving, it’s natural to reflect on the kind of things—even the impossible ones—we’d most like to receive. And if it’s not in Santa’s magical power to make a silk purse from my sow’s ears, well, then perhaps he’ll consider leaving me a nice push up bra.(But not this nice: the 2009 Victoria’s Secret Harlequin Fantasy Bra (shown), weighing in at 150 carats of white-, champagne- and cognac-colored diamonds and costing a cool 3 mil.)