Once upon a time, my bosom was a model of compliance. It held its position faithfully, stood unwaveringly upright, and required minimal oversight. In short, it was a paragon of reliability.
However, after nursing five children, I began to notice a shift in loyalty. A small uprising had occurred. My once proud bosom started to sag, descending to levels I could hardly accept. They could practically be rolled up like a burrito, and my morning routine now resembled the stuffing of a Thanksgiving turkey. No longer could they be described as “at attention.” Instead, they exhibited such laziness that, when positioned, they could point in any direction imaginable. My final glance in the mirror before heading out now involves ensuring that my bosom isn’t having its own rebellious moment. Often, it’s difficult to focus when they seem to be in complete disagreement about where to look. I can only imagine what a bewildered onlooker might think.
But none of these acts of defiance could compare to the ultimate betrayal my bosom displayed during a recent massage experience.
I have a penchant for purchasing Groupons. I often forget about them and scramble to use them before they expire. Recently, I bought a Groupon for a massage for my birthday but neglected to book an appointment until the last minute. The sole available therapist was a man, whom I affectionately call my “mansuesse.” In my pre-kid days, I adored getting massages from men. They possess strong hands, apply sufficient pressure, and tend to maintain silence throughout the session. Back then, I fancied myself a highlight of their day. Now, however, I felt compelled to mentally prepare him for what he was about to encounter. “Five kids… the old mare ain’t what she used to be.” Yet, I bravely went ahead and booked the appointment with this new mansuesse, hoping for the best.
At first, everything went smoothly. My mansuesse asked about my preferences, and then the massage began. For an entire hour, I was enveloped in blissful silence—until the unthinkable happened. While massaging my shoulders, he lifted my arm, and my bosom, which had been tucked beneath the covers, decided to make a bold escape. The old bosom would never have moved from its designated spot. But this day? All bets were off. I could hear George Michael’s “Freedom” in my head as my bosom made a bid for its own Mardi Gras moment.
I lay there, frozen for what felt like an eternity—though it was probably just a second—debating my next move. Denial seemed like the best course of action. “If I keep my eyes closed and don’t acknowledge it, did it really happen?” I lay unnaturally still, forced my breathing to remain steady, and did my best impression of a tranquil client. I’m pretty sure my mansuesse saw right through it, but I clung to the hope that if I pretended it never occurred, he might overlook it too. The absurdity of that thought was evident, considering these were not petite ‘A’ cups we were discussing; but rather, post-five-babies ‘DD’ cups. This was akin to a giant bowl of Jello tumbling off the counter—impossible to ignore. Still, I adhered to my strategy and told myself to “Just keep breathing.” Meanwhile, I silently cursed my rebellious bosom and vowed never to get another massage.
In a matter of moments, my tactful mansuesse lowered my arm and discreetly pulled the blanket back up, nearly to my neck. I could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from my bosoms as they were returned to their rightful place. I’m certain that sight scarred my mansuesse for life. Yet, when my hour concluded, and I finally managed to tuck my bosom back in, I emerged from the massage room, bracing myself for the look of horror I expected to see. Instead, I was met with a glass of water and the unexpected question, “Would you like to book your next appointment?” My shock was palpable. I quickly muttered a curse against my bosom, told myself to “man up,” and scheduled my next massage, leaving a generous sympathy tip as I departed.
This experience taught me to always anticipate the unexpected when it comes to my bosom. Who knows where they might pop out next? I decided to continue seeing the same therapist. After all, what’s left to lose? Yet, I can’t help but chuckle each time he pulls the sheets up a little higher.
Well played, defiant bosoms. Well played indeed.
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Summary:
Jenna Collins humorously recounts her experiences with her bosom after having five children, highlighting an embarrassing moment during a massage that left her feeling both amused and mortified. Despite the challenges of motherhood and the physical changes that come with it, she embraces the unexpected nature of life while navigating her new reality.