Underboob and Vegan Cooking

I am not a good cook. That’s a lie. I’m an awful cook. There are fires and the possibility of stomach pumping. With this in mind, it does seem odd that I would sign up for a meal delivery service. Let me explain.

I am tired of eating frozen vegetables. I need fresh food, healthy food. I need healthy food for one person. I need healthy food for one person with detailed instructions. Meal delivery systems! I choose Purple Carrot. I would like to be able to say it’s because I had some noble vision of sustainability and global freedom from servitude for all livestock, but it was because they offered the largest discount to sign up.

I won’t review the service. If you want my opinion then you can ask. However, I want to share the spectacular disaster that I am in the kitchen. Some background, these kits come with all the ingredients portioned, grouped, and labeled and have a recipe card that includes photos. This story is about Kale and Quinoa Bowl with Tahini Drizzle.

Step 1– Heat the oven to 425ºF. Spread 2 tablespoons of olive oil on a rimmed baking sheet and put it in the oven. Rinse, trim, and peel the root vegetables. Cut them into 1/2 to 1/4 chunks, carefully spread them on the heated pan in one layer, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and return to the oven. Roast (and get to work on the rest of the recipe), undisturbed, until they’re golden brown and easily release from the pan when gently pried with a spatula, 8-12 minutes. Once they can be turned, toss them every 5 minutes until they’re tender and browned all over, 10-15 minutes more. Remove pan from oven.

What actually happened: Find pan. Coat with oil. Put in the oven. Rinse roots veggies and remove cat from counter. Wash hands. Remove cat again, rinse veggies cat was licking, wash hands. Decide you will need wine. Open a bottle and let it breath. Peel carrots. Remove cat from counter and wash hands. Peel sweet potato. Yell at cat for licking the turnip. Rinse and peel after washing hands. Start chopping veggies. Grab towel and wave in front of smoke detector. Return to kitchen, call cat an asshole, remove him from the counter, wash hands, and rinse veggies cat was licking. Take towel and step stool to smoke detector and remove battery. Turn heat on oven down and open a window. Chop remainder of veggies. Get pan out of oven and too late remember that the pan is hot. Call yourself a moron. Take a swig of wine straight from the bottle. Put veggies on pan with salt and pepper. Put in oven and forget to turn heat backup.

Step 2– Rinse the quinoa in a strainer and put into a small saucepan with 1 and 3/4 cups of water and a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, and then reduce the heat to medium-low. Cover and bubble gently until the quinoa has absorbed all of the water, 15 minutes or so. Remove from the heat and let it rest, covered, for 5 minutes.

What actually happened: Look at your strainer and realize there is no way to rinse that without all the quinoa going through the slots with the water. Skip that part and put directly into the small pot. Put on stove and forget about it. Realize that the temperature of the stove was turned down. Shout profanity, drink some more wine, and turn up the heat.

Step 3– While the vegetables and quinoa cook, rinse and juice the lemon into a bowl. Rinse, dry, and destem the kale. Chop the kale and toss in a large bowl with 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of oil, and a pinch of salt. Massage the kale between your palms until it’s tender and a deep green color, 1-2 minutes.

What actually happened: Completely ignore this step for no good reason. Perhaps due to all the wine you drank. Wash all dishes from prep and congratulate yourself. Have some more wine. Skip directly to step 4.

Step 4– Mince 1 clove of garlic, put in small bowl with tahini, 2 tablespoons hot tap water, and 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Whisk or stir with fork until it’s as smooth as possible. Taste and adjust the seasoning. To serve, toss the kale and quinoa together and divide among bowls. Top with roasted vegetables and drizzle with tahini sauce over everything.

What actually happened: Hunt through kitchen for the garlic. Realize the asshole cat is running around the house with it in his mouth. Wrestle away from asshole cat. Wash garlic and hands and start chopping. Mix with tahini and ask Siri to explain to your ignorant ass what tahini is. Realize you never tossed the vegetables or checked on the quinoa. Turn down heat on quinoa and decide veggies will be ok. Stare at the lemon and wonder what you are supposed to do with that. Read instructions and become grateful it’s not asking you to do something obscure like zest the lemon. Realize you skipped step 3. Swear loudly and drink some wine. Take quinoa off stove and go to step 3. Realize halfway through cleaning the kale that your largest bowl is not big enough. Decide you can work through this and add the quinoa. Spray quinoa all over the kitchen trying to mix with kale. Tell yourself you don’t need all those carbs anyway. Remember that the veggies are still in the oven. Take them out, turn off the stove and decide they look edible. Attempt to divide kale/quinoa mixture and come to understand this is more than 2 servings. Dig out storage containers. Put leftovers in fridge and hope you like this recipe because you are going to be eating this for days. Find your largest glass and fill with more wine. Plop down on the couch with bowl of food, huge glass of wine, and eat.

The finished product. It was pretty good.

The finished product. It was pretty good.

Things I learned:

  • My cat is an asshole
  • Cooking with a cat ensures good food safety
    • you wash your hands and the food often
  • I can’t multitask. I need to do things in order or I forget about them
  • What tahini is made from
  • Apothic Dark pairs really well with tahini
  • The people that write the instructions have no comprehension of my dysfunction

VWW-Unclubbable

1

Unclubbable

having or showing a disinclination for social activity : unsociable

imagesYGJ4Z14J

And this pretty much sums me up. It is spotlighted during the holiday season with all the parties and mad rush to celebrate. I have no interest in any of it.

Yes, Christmas is great. So is Chanukah, and Yule, and Festivus, and probably Kwanza (I’m woefully ignorant about Kwanza). But it’s getting cold and it’s dark at three in the afternoon. My circadian rhythms are flooding my body with signals to hibernate, not celebrate. I want to crawl under a warm, fuzzy blanket and whisper words of devotion to my pillow.

Lets not even start with the New Years parties. I get it. Out with the old, in with the new. But why? I mean, it’s just some arbitrary date on a calendar. It’s not really a good starting point. I mean, it’s not really mid winter since winter only started on the solstice a few weeks ago. That marked the shortest day of the year. There would be a good place to start over. When the days begin to get longer and the sun returns. I could have a party for the return of the light.

But I probably still wouldn’t go. I hate small talk. I really don’t like socializing. I loathe having to repress my thoughts, opinions, and expression in favor of a socially acceptable mask. Standing in a room full of people I hardly know, holding something I most likely won’t consume, and attempting to be mildly pleasant so no one is offended is exhausting, not entertaining. On the flip side, drunken revelry isn’t appealing either. Who wants to drag themselves out of the house only to be surrounded by strangers with no impulse control? That doesn’t seem fun anymore.

So I am unclubbable.  And I think I am alright with that. You go have fun for me.

Indoctrinations

I have never been a fan of romance novels. It always seemed like granny porn, something older women read to fantasize. At one time I would buy used romances based on the absurdity of the cover at a thrift store, read them with a group of my friends, and make fun of the passages. Nothing like hot, moist, loins ignited with the flames of desire to get us all into a good belly laugh. If we ventured beyond that we would poke fun at the horribly simplistic depictions of interactions between the genders. The men were always in a position of power, often some sort of misunderstood outlaw or unjustly vilified criminal and the women were always some sort of victim, either a hostage or a forced marriage or some sort of dilemma that implies subservience. At some point the female protagonist always attempts some show of defiance or independence in an attempt to remove herself from the situation at hand only to find that she is really in love with the man and thus succumbs to her fate proving that love makes everything better. Apparently, even Stockholm Syndrome.

Tell me this doesn't send a message!

Tell me this doesn’t send a message!

So why do so many women read these things? I think the bodice ripping romance has become the modern parable in that it reinforces for women the lessons we are taught as small girls about accepting rape culture. That’s a bold statement, I know, but hear me out. Remember being very young on a playground and a boy teases you, pulls your hair, pinches or hits you? Remember crying because either your feelings or actual body were hurt? Remember being told by an adult that the boy did that because he liked you? Remember thinking that made no sense at all? I’m pretty sure we all remember that.

This is probably our first indoctrination into rape culture. Being told to accept physical and emotional abuse from a peer as a sign of affection is ludicrous. If an adult woman said a man was hitting and belittling her we wouldn’t say it was because he loved her. We would tell her she deserves better and to get away from him. But little girls are taught to accept that kind of behavior and encouraged to do so with as little objection as possible. Not only does this encourage girls to internalize that boys will cause them pain if they are admired, but also that boys are not capable of processing emotions. Has anyone ever stepped back and thought about how insane this is?

This is just one big self-fulfilling prophecy. Boys will be boys is a permissive encouragement to young boys to continue to be more physical and less verbal in their expression. Not only does it give boys license to be more physical it also discourages them from verbal expression. Additionally, it enforces a sense of male privilege in allowing boys to solve their problems by corporeal means. Girls are taught to accept this as not only a matter of course, but a compliment. They shouldn’t cry or make a fuss when they are hurt or bullied by boys. That’s just what boys do. It’s how boys express themselves. Girls need to learn how to change their instinct to protect themselves from assault, be it verbal or physical, because the nature of boys can’t be overcome. And that’s just the way it is.

imagesBDPB06FK

This belief is so pervasive in our culture that it is perpetuated without thought. Sure, we say things like “Use your words” and “Don’t hit girls” but we don’t really back that up. “Use your words” is for situations when being combative is frowned upon. Like the classroom or the grocery store, places even children know they have to fall in line. But once they are let loose on a playground, the natural habitat if you will, those rules no longer apply. “Don’t hit girls” is generally given to mean don’t hit them in anger. You can indeed use physical force to express your superiority, because boys will be boys after all. And children understand this, even if they can’t articulate it. They see hear what we say and see what we do. They learn the lesson by witnessing who gets rewarded for what specific behavior regardless of what the rules are explained to be. They learn very early that the game is rigged.

Sooner or later people become more self-aware and gain critical thinking skills and the ability to question. Here is where the romance novel comes into play. It’s not alone and I don’t mean to get down on a single genre of writing. There are several cousins that assist romances in reinforcing the cultural code of male privilege and rape culture. Romantic comedies, fashion magazines, television, music, and on and on. There is always a subset that works towards sustaining the status quo. But the general form of the romance novel as stated earlier is simply that men are in positions of power, they take what they want, women will grow to like it, and it’s sold to us wrapped up as a love story. So how is that different from telling a five-year old he punched your arm and ripped the head off your doll because he likes you?

VWW- Velleity

Velleity

the lowest degree of volition

a slight wish or tendency: inclination

untitled

With the New Year celebrations almost upon us we must also prepare for the onslaught of resolutions. In a combined state of nostalgia, optimism, and drunkenness citizens of the world will decree their desire to change in the next twelve months.

It’s all bullshit. We all know it. Most people don’t desire something different enough to put in the effort. No, resolutions are simply things we wish would change magically, on their own, without the sweat.

images47HA2EHP

It’s not laziness. It’s not falsehood. It’s simply that change is scary. Change is difficult. When you change there are unknown ripples in the pond, and what if you don’t like those. On some level everyone realizes that there is no going back. You can only move forward. Or stay put. And that’s the option most people take by February.

But at that precise moment in time, on New Years, millions of people will look at their lives. Millions of people will think it isn’t what they want. Millions of people will wish and hope for something more.  For just a brief moment the population starts to wake up and acknowledge it is raw truth. But then….

 

 

VWW- Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

  1. the act of giving thanks; grateful acknowledgment of benefits or favors, especially to God.
  2. an expression of thanks
  3. a public celebration in acknowledgment of divine favor or kindness.

That is the Merriam Webster definition of Thanksgiving. However, in the USA we treat it less of a day of gratitude and more of an expression of all the things that are detestful about American culture. I know that seems harsh, but let’s break it down.

First there is the food. Not only is it a prim example of how much abundance we have but also the level of gluttony we are capable of performing. And it’s a point of pride. We gather around a table and try to one up each other about how many calories we can consume. In what other situation is it socially acceptable to brag about the number of servings we stuffed into our gullet? Or how many piece of pie we can eat?

1b1512707ec86a178fb63cf6b9aca6ff

Then there is the sin of sloth. After consuming enough food to feed most families for a week we then waddle over to the sofa to participate in our favorite thing. Watching other people be athletic. Traditionally it’s football. However, if they keep expanding the season I predict we will soon have the option to watch baseball as well. No matter. So long as we can sit there and marinate in the tryptophan and shout at the television.

While we are watching that television, we can also prepare for the worst part of this holiday. Black Friday. Just a few short years ago there was an outcry because the stores were opening earlier and earlier. Some of them are now open on Thanksgiving. I find this heartbreaking. It was one of the last secular holidays where everything was closed with the small exception of gas stations. Thanksgiving was for everyone. Now it’s for everyone who doesn’t work in retail to shop.

89300f9bab6582453ec302ba88953cdd

Who are we kidding? Soon we will be sitting in a line ordering pizza with an emoji on our smart phones.

And shop we do. To the point of violence. Every year someone gets seriously injured at a big box store on Black Friday. Not even 24 hours after we were pretending to be thankful our citizens head out en mass and do battle with each other over material goods. This under the guise that we will graciously give said items as gifts to commemorate the Christian savior. Someone who was purported to preach that we love our neighbor. Just not the one who also wanted to buy the Dr. Dre Beats headphones.

What happened?

Of course, we tell each other a fairy tale about Pilgrims and Native Americans, but I think we all know that the truth is far from the social studies lesson taught to us. So let’s not even go there unless we are gonna’ be honest about the horrible things our ancestors did. OK?

72535d2a44e6eb810b9771fada12756e

It could have ended much differently. We should remember that.

Abraham Lincoln was the first to set a date (the last Thursday in November) in 1863 to “commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife” and to “heal the wounds of the nation” after the civil war. Prior to this each state had a different celebration. FDR changed it to the third Thursday in November in 1939 as an attempt to bolster holiday spending during the Great Depression. That wasn’t popular so it was changed back in 1941.

So how did it go from a day of gratitude to a day of gluttony, sloth, and violent consumerism? How did we become so vapid and narcissistic that we can’t take a day to look around and say, “I’m doing pretty good. I’m glad I have the things I have?”

Some of us are so removed that we don’t even know where to begin. So let me tell you my list. I am thankful for:

  • My house- for keeping me warm and safe
  • Air conditioning- during the summer there is nothing so decadent as not being sweaty
  • My Job- It was a long, hard road but I finally found where I fit
  • My debts- yes, really! Because it means I have (or had) credit and a resource of funds not available to so many, even if I misused that privilege.
  • Being fat- In our culture it’s frowned upon, but I have access to an abundance of food while others go hungry
  • My car- it gives me freedom and mobility that is denied many even in our own country.
  • My savings account- I have money in the bank and it makes me wealthier than many people in the world
  • The First Amendment- I’d be in jail or dead with out it because, wow, can I run my mouth
  • My friends- I always know that there is someplace I’m not weird or that I am, and it’s embraced
  • My pets- they keep me company and I am affluent enough to afford to care for them
  • My health- fat I may be, but I am healthy. I’ve been seriously sick, I’ve seen disease. I’m so grateful I am healthy
  • Clothes-I have too many and there are too many people who don’t have enough

It’s not an extensive list, but it’s a start. I have a house, electricity, plumbing, a job, a car, and some money in the bank. While I still struggle, as many do, in our economy and there are many things that need to be fixed, I try to remember that on a global scale, I am wealthy. Then there are the intangible things that make me rich. The people in my life, the experiences we share. There is no way to wrap that up in ribbons and bows. It can’t be bought at any price. maybe we can put the fork down, step away from the TV, and look at each other and just be happy we aren’t alone, cold, hungry, and sick.

37da2e157909b07b658e0e3c812d4e67

 

Expiration Date Approaching!

expiration-date-2

I feel like I am approaching my expiration date as a woman. Sure, we tell each other woman are attractive at all ages, but who are we kidding? In this declining civilization with its emphasis on the perfunctory aesthetic the desire for superficial expressions of worth have gained significance in the social strata. Whether the fault of changing values, the sound bites media sensationalize, or the internet and social media removing our human interaction the result remains that there is an increasing amount of value placed upon outward appearance. This is true for both men and women. Though, as usual, women bear the heavier burden as historically they were nothing more than property and an extension of a man’s wealth and status. To have an attractive spouse and /or daughters was a symbol of prosperity. Much the way we view cars today. Think that has changed? Just look at fashion or gossip magazines. It’s still all about the outer package. We may propound ourselves to be more enlightened about such things but the truth is we still judge women more harshly than men in regards to physical attractiveness. Agree or disagree, my point is that I am approaching my expiration date. How do I know this? The amount of young men who approach me for the Cougar Experience.

Young men, vital and alive, exploding with the promise of the unknown future. These men approach me with all the bravado and pomposity that their egos and some alcohol can produce. They come up to my table, they interrupt my conversation, and they think that I will be impressed by their rudeness. They know that I am older than the girls they normally approach. I am some mythic beast, a gauntlet thrown down before them, K2 that needs to be conquered. I am an “older woman.” I’m not sure what bawdy stories get passed around among the post college young adult males about the sexual prowess of older woman but I can gather from their demeanor the tales have grown to epic proportions. This is not an attraction borne out of biochemistry and pheromones. It’s not a vestigial evolutionary instinct. No, this is an entirely socially constructed bucket list challenge and I am their target. They are going to bed this cougar and live to tell the tale complete with embellishments and photographic evidence of flesh wounds endured at her hands.

3qtj8f

It makes no difference to these young men that I have no interest in their quest. I just want to enjoy my meal, my show, the book, my coffee. But alas, I am confronted with a fine specimen of masculinity at the height of its potential, complete with the confidence that only comes with either youth or the privilege of white male mediocrity. I am inundated with flattery and blatant lies, they pretend to fall at my feet and adore me with false worship thinking, incorrectly, that is what I want. They know my youth is fading, to their eyes it is already gone, they believe the honeyed words with make me delusional enough to believe that they have an actual interest in me. They cannot comprehend why someone teetering on the edge of obscurity and staring into the abyss of middle age and looking down the barrel of the loaded gun that is menopause would deny myself a night of adventure with an exuberant creature such as themselves.

But they know little of women. They are cavorting with what are still girls. Young women who are still playing games, who have time on their side, who haven’t yet settled into their own skin. These girls have not blossomed into women. They have they physical presence of a woman, but not the internal fortitude. The cougar hunter hasn’t developed they skills of honesty and vulnerability, they can’t balance guarding themselves with being genuine. They can only replay the schema that has generated results for them in the past. They know not what a woman wants from a man. And not a man of media construct, but a man who can vanquish his own demons as well as the demons hiding under the toddlers bed at 3 am. A man who knows how precious time is and that to waste a moment of someone’s time is a crime too heinous to consider. A man who understands that being inebriated is not having fun, who understands that enthusiasm is the best gauge of consent, who respects the space and decisions of another person. A man who is discreet.

No, the cougar hunter will get nowhere with me. The posturing, the genuflecting, the capitulation to prescribed gender norms is usually diverting. But not enough to waste an evening. Not enough to try to get them to leave, because the youth never understand when they have overstayed their invitation. Not enough to revisit the unskilled encounter that all women remember too well from their own youth. Nor do they understand how unflattering it is to be singled out as approaching antiquity from the perspective of the youth obsessed culture. I enjoy watching them try though.

VWW- Drapetomania

 

 

Drapetomania:

an overwhelming urge to run away
cbb197d3717f074b4d59cc3e90d0d7fe

The strange thing about adulthood is that I have had the urge to flee more once than I ever had when I was younger. At least once a week I fantasize about bailing on my bills, my house, and my career packing some clothes and the pets in the car and living like a nomad. As time passes I am slowly coming to realize that I don’t own anything. All the things own me. And I just need to break free from the suffocatingly stiffiling cage I have locked myself in. I can’t be alone in that.

VWW-Alharaca

45dad80fe4b84242e759dfa2b4289821

Alharaca:

an extraordinary or violent emotional reaction to a small issue

 

This is taken from Spanish and I think we need to incorporate it into the vernacular. Because who hasn’t done this? Be honest!

At some point, more often than we would like to admit even to ourselves, we have all lost it over something silly and inconsequential. Oh sure, we know there are mitigating circumstances that lead up to a total meltdown of an adult over an out of order air pump but the other people don’t see any of that.

No one sees that you got up a half hour early only to be treated with a vomiting cat, a broken coffee maker, a dryer full of wet clothes you forgot to turn on, a misplaced report you need at 8 AM, and a lost shoe all before getting in the car to discover the tire pressure monitor is lit up. No one saw that you drove to three gas stations before this one and none of the air compressors were working. No one saw that you were now running late despite planning ahead.

What everyone saw was a middle aged woman dressed in business clothes kicking the air pump, shouting profanity, and acting like she was off her meds. They get a great story and you get to be a combination of frustrated, defeated, and embarrassed. You’re lying if you say you haven’t done it.

So let’s take this word. Let’s use it and make it we’ll known to all. That way when everyone is staring at your socially inappropriate reaction to something small and seemingly minor you can just say Sorry I went alharaca, bad day.” And everyone will understand. Continue reading

VWW- Haptic

Haptic:

  1. relating to or based on the sense of touch
  2. characterized by a predilection for the sense of touch

17si3kmipoagmjpg

 

I live alone. I’ve lived alone since my divorce eight years ago. Independence is something I value immensely and most of the time I would be hard pressed to compromise. Nothing is ever perfect though and one thing is missing. That is touch.

Harlow’s experiments with contact comfort were done in the 1950’s and have been replicated multiple times over the years. That said, it’s generally understood that lack of contact can result in adverse behaviors both socially and sexually. The experiment showed that contact and comfort will be chosen even over food. This is a gross simplification of the study, but suspend your disbelief for a few moments and indulge me.

50364303

Photo of Harlow’s monkey’s

Because the majority of my friends and family live on the other side of the state I can go a very long time without any physical contact with another human being. I feel this contributes to my ability to manage stress and anxiety. It also has an impact in my decision making process.

I’ve always been a sex positive thinker. Live and let live was my motto. That said, casual sex was never my thing. Flash forward a few years post divorce and now there is a different attitude altogether.

Not because I had some mental revelation. Not because I’ve grown into my sexuality. Not because I’ve thrown off conventional models of appropriate social behavior. That was not a part of my journey. No, I engaged in casual sex because it supplied my need for human touch.

Prior to my divorce there was touching. Of course there was sensual touch, but also the more casual forms of affection. A hug, a hand on the back, arm around the shoulder, or head in a lap. There were more playful interactions like snapping towels during the dishes, slaps on the backside on the way out the door, raspberries, zorbits, and even wet willies.  If you share a domicile with another human being think about how many ways you touch each other. It’s much more than you might believe.

Then one day it was gone. At first I didn’t notice as there were so many other things to attend to that took priority. As time went on I noticed its absence. Friends encouraged me to date, to meet people.

So I did. Anyone dating knows how frustrating that endeavor can be! That’s a novel in and of its self. Let’s just say it wasn’t fulfilling. And I wasn’t in a place to open up let alone commit to anything.  So what’s a highly analytical girl to do? Apply logic.

I wanted touch, they wanted sex. Sex involves touch. Lots and lots of touch. Let’s be honest, I wanted sex too. Problem solved!

Well, temporarily. As anyone who has engaged in the practice of casual sex can tell you, it gets old. It’s empty and eventually you realize you want more from a partner. And that is where I am. I miss the affectionate comfort that comes from rapport. Touch is soothing. It conveys a level of closeness, tenderness, and warmth. The touch of passion and desire don’t always satisfy in the long term. I can find an outlet but it won’t achieve a level of playfulness, equanimity, or inclusion that develops with the openness and conviction of trust.

Gravity is a Bitch!

2_gravity2

Several women in my family are rather well endowed. My sister has a pair rivaling Dolly Parton. All my life I was warned that women with large breasts had to dread the effects of gravity. Instruction was given to always secure solid foundation garments to avoid having them down by my knees by the time I was 40.

As puberty approached I, like so many other young girls, began to wonder what Mother Nature would provide me with in terms  of mammary tissue. I would alternate between what I wished for.

Did I want a  big pair like my sister? That came with lots of attention and admiration, but also back pain and the future threat of sagging. Did I want small, perky breasts? Those left no doubt you were a woman but still offered you the option of going without a bra. In the end it didn’t matter what I wanted. Like everyone else, I got what I got. Deal with it. And like every other woman before me I did not appreciate what I had until it was gone.

When I was younger were glorious. Middle sized, not too big, not too small. High, round, and firm. I would lament that they were so dense I could not get them to move together to form cleavage. When lying on my back they would disperse, but still looked divine. Well, that’s long gone.

They aren’t sagging to my knees, but the density that gave them their shape bailed around the same time my knees lost their elasticity. As a result I can now get cleavage. I can also do shadow puppets with them. It doesn’t seem so much like the effects of gravity as a rearrangement of surface area. Now the moment that my bra comes off they immediately try to take cover in my armpits. I’m not sure if they have developed social anxiety or a shifting of tectonic plates. Thankfully men have also become slightly more mature, or at least more tactful. It’s been a while, but the last few partners kept the commentary to themselves when they had to scoop the girls out from under my arms. Or maybe they found the nipple peeking out from my axilla cute. Whatever, no one is complaining.

Overall, it’s not that big of a deal. I had to make some minor lifestyle adjustments. Putting on a bra now requires me to bend at the waist while pulling the cups away from my body. This causes the girl to fall out of their safe haven under my arms and into the bra. Then I can straighten up and adjust them. I still have the concern of cup spillage, only now it’s the other side of the cup. The silver lining to this is that I have an extra layer available when the under wire pops out. It has to go through a titty before it can stab my in the artery. And it’s made sports bras easier to find. Since they lost density they compress much easier. No more bouncing.

the-girls

A few years ago this would have offended my sensibilities. Now I am the target market and I understand. Perspective.

I guess that’s what aging is all about.  Realizing that things change and sometimes it isn’t good or bad, but just different.