Like butta', mmmm... maybe a little more like jello

So, lately I've been inordinately proud of my breasts. This is not like me. I was not one of those little girls who was waiting to blossom. I liked my streamlined, pragmatic, asexual body. Even recently, as boasts about my burgeoning bosom have surfaced unplanned like Freudian slips, I've clung to the idea that I'm a 36 C. You see, I am a person who likes elegance in design, where form follows function. And even though people might not guess it to look at my outerwear, I have very specific tastes. My bras don't look fancy, but they fit perfectly, and I pride myself on this kind of elegance. All my bras are the exact same bra- Olga, with a flower in the middle, 36 C, minimizer bras. They fit perfectly. And then suddenly, they didn't. Something looked wrong. My nipples were showing through my shirts. It was time for a change, and I finally had to admit that I had hot-pocketed my way right into a D cup. My bras look enormous now. When I brought home a new one, my roommate exclaimed, "That could fit on my head!" It reminded me of a Designing Women episode when the red head was the keeper of the busty brunette's bra and she put it on her head. I haven't reached Delta Burke status yet, but I do have an abundance of flesh. It seems almost overindulgant.

As I stood in the dressing room with my bouncy breast tissue held aloft like it was on a tray, and my toddler-like belly protruding defiantly, I thought, "Have I gone too far?" Is this reveling in all this butter contributed fat and flesh too much? Should I kick into streamline phase, build up my muscles and melt all this delicious fat off my body? Then what would I do with all the new clothes I'm buying?!" I turned and looked at myself from the side. If I jut my stomach out and make it taught in instead of jiggly, I could look pregnant. I will make a darn cute pregnant woman. Then I wondered if the old tautology was true: To get pregnant, one must not already look pregnant... Nah... Who wouldn't want to revel in all this extra bouncy flesh with me. My rolling thighs and protruding belly look just as cute on me as they do on a toddler, right? And even though I don't understand the sexual allure of breasts, I know that some people do.

I think my current pride in my girth is the closest I've come to understanding some men's pride in their package. It's like a female version of machismo. Well, we'll see where all this intuitive eating and moving leads me. I'm never going back to forcing myself to eat crappola again. I'm not eating on an eating plan. I'm not running 36 thousand miles, or even 36 if I don't want to. I am going to keep buying clothes that I like for my body as it is now. I can always put them in a box when my body changes. I don't know why I thought I had to get my body to one specific place and try and keep it there. A woman's body changes so much in her life, and if I have my way, it's going to change a lot more in the coming years, and I won't have to pretend I'm pregnant. I can have a box of clothes for different future sizes. I have room in my life for my changing body, and these DKNY jeans I'm wearing are going to make excellent early maternity jeans. So, I guess I don't have to worry about losing my breasts to exercise. They'll come back eventually, taught with expectation, like my toddler belly.