From Your (Former?) Southern Regional President
Dear Committee Members,
It is I, your longtime (and possibly longest-tenured) Southern Regional President of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee, here with a bittersweet announcement:
It is with a heavy heart — and slightly heavier boobs — that I’m officially stepping down from my post. Yes, technically, I defected from the flatlands over 15 years ago when pregnancy boobs showed up uninvited. But I stayed on in honorary capacity — let’s call it a Lifetime Achievement Award for Distinguished Flatness.
But the time has come. I’ve officially hung up my AA’s!
For those of you reading this and wondering what on earth I’m talking about. Picture this: growing up with two perfectly sculpted Hershey’s Kisses on your chest. No push-up bra needed. Honestly, no bra needed at all. They weren’t so much boobs as decorative suggestions — festive, perky, and low-maintenance. I saved a fortune on lingerie, tanned on my stomach like royalty, and never once experienced boob sweat. It was glorious. These popstars spent their entire teen and adult life living perky and perfectly pretty, until the years of motherhood arrived.
At first, I thought it was a joke, I mean they say you grow a cup size when you are preggo but these babies were like 2 cup sizes when you start from negative. There was no warning, no memo. One day I walked by a mirror, caught a weird shadow, looked down… and there they were. Standing at attention. I poked, squeezed, even pinched them just to make sure they weren’t a prank. After decades of wishing for them, these fashionably late guests had finally RSVP’d — just in time for PTA meetings and grocery store runs. My late bloomers entered my world right along with under-eye concealer and yoga pants.
But motherhood took things to a whole new level. The girls moved up — and then out. They were sore, in the way, and oddly helpful. Who knew boobs could double as armrests? But just when I started embracing my new friends, they betrayed me. Like true backstabbers, they relocated. Migrated, really. One went east, the other west. These ladies were less “perky partygoers” and more like summer teeth: some’re here, some’re there.
It wasn’t even that they shrunk. It’s that they lost their sense of direction. Was it perimenopause? Was it age? The extra weight? Not sure. They were more like a college student with an undecided major looking to hang around but refused to commit to a major.
These days, I float in boob limbo — somewhere between an A+ and a B-. Not exactly thriving, more like existing. Still, I take pride in the fact that I passed the Pencil Test. You know the one: slip a pencil under your boob and see if it stays. If it falls, gravity hasn’t claimed you yet. If it sticks, well… it might be time to start Googling “boob tape” and “subtle lift bras that don’t scream ‘orthopedic.’”
And now, here I am – full circle. My teenage daughter stands at the beginning of her own chest journey, studying her reflection and asking, “Is this my future?” She mutters genetics like it’s a curse word. I reassure her, “You’ve got structure, pockets, promise. Just give it time.” She groans, “They’re unpredictable. How am I supposed to plan an outfit if they change sizes every week?” Unlike my own pocketless movie stars I had no chance until the baby weight showed up. She’s caught in the weird hormonal loop schedule: grow, shrink, repeat. Ah, teen problems. If only she knew. I want to whisper; you have no idea how lucky you are.
My darling daughter, I leave you with these fine words, you won’t be President of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee. However, I can’t promise that you won’t be a member for a short time. Go grab your tote bag, learn the ropes and then move on to bigger things (sizes) – pun intended of course.
So here I am. Retired, but not forgotten. Still nostalgic for the days when I could jog without a sports bra — or confusion. Now I walk proudly, with my semi-formed, occasionally directionless boobs and say: I earned these late bloomers.
And if they migrate too far south? I’ll tape them up, throw on a V-neck, and pretend I’m 28.
To the IBTC — thank you for the memories, the humor, and the best damn cleavage-free hugs around. I may no longer be flat, but I’ll never forget where I came from.
Consider this my official resignation… with one boob still in the group chat.
