I dig out some workout clothes and scoop my boobs up into a sports bra in which they immediately droop. I lace up my 7 1/2 wide shoes. I grab a banana and stuff it in the diaper bag, pack up the kids. I joined a gym.
As I did my bicep curls in the mirror the song lyrics “It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this” kept playing on repeat in my head. Even though my headphones were blasting chick rock, because everyone knows one must work out to Regina Spektor and Kate Nash. Anyways, I’m doing my sad workout and noting that my boobs are about 10 degrees south of where they should be and it hits me. BAM! Like a load of bricks. I. have. mom. boobs. Guys, I’m 28 years old! I haven’t even been on earth for three decades! My boobs canNOT be mom boobs. I mean, I have had and breastfed two children, but guuuuys! My boobs used to be so perky, like “I work at Starbucks and just chain drank 14 espressos” perky. Now you might as well call me Saggy Mcboobypants*. That’s Miss Mcboobypants if you’re nasty. Sorry boobs. You were too young to die.
*Got to credit my girl LP for that winning nomenclature.