“Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.”
I dedicate this article to the memory of the beloved Disney character, Tinkerbelle, who died this summer after flailing for days on a gummy fly strip. Tink is survived by her somewhat less diminutive sister, Tankerbelle.
Speaking of faeries, I’d planned to dress as one at a recent Renaissance Faire. But the mosquitoes were so brutal, I didn’t want to spray my newly winged body with OFF and then spend the whole day repelling myself.
Last year I rented a queen costume with yards of taffeta billowing over an eight-foot-wide hoop skirt. Oh, so elegant was I. And then some nice young firemen came with axes and freed me from the porta-potty. So, this time I dressed as Joan of Arc. Inspirational. Dignified. Until my crocheted “body armor” of soda can pull-tabs and silver yarn caught on my authentic elk boots, and (oops!!) unraveled. Those damned antlers.
Ever been to a Renaissance Faire? The cleavage quotient soars off the charts. I don’t begrudge the lassies who flaunt their chestitude, but I sure miss mine. The once deep valley of my mammenhanced youth has morphed over time into an empty lot with drifting berms of sand. Seems my cleavage hitched a ride with other body parts and migrated south. So much for maintaining property values.
When I was “twenty-something” just a few tiny decades ago, my zealous commitment to feminist ideology consisted of sometimes going bra-less. (I am nothing if not superficial.) Back then, an advice columnist wrote that if you could snug a pencil under your busomness, you HAD to wear a bra. Why is it I never remember my online account passwords, but easily cough up this ancient crap?? Anyway, I failed the pencil test, despite private tutoring. Maybe I shoulda tried a No. 4 Ticonderoga….
Gravity aids this sneaky mammigration. That’s okay. Given our climate-change troubles, I’m relieved the laws of physics still rock. But if body parts keep wandering, eventually both units of my pectoral campsite will be entirely vacated, leaving me a clueless landlady with no tenants.
When did this start? I suspect my bifurcated adipose skipped town while I was inspecting hundreds of new menopausal moles and setting up a memorial fund for my skin tone. My cleavage remains at large, even though I ran the rascal’s photo on milk cartons. Yes, I know. Ironic. I pray that it’s safe and happy, perhaps cruising the scene somewhere in a double-breasted suit.
Of course, if you or I decide to retire elsewhere, moving might be easier if our fleshly valuables did relocate separately at their own pace, rather than wait for us to shlepp ourselves en masse. Golly, I’ll be thrilled if all of me reunites in a warm state! One that licenses old folks to drive without fussing over silly details like vision exams and road tests.
We hear about preventing falls with exercise to preserve our sense of balance. Not to worry. Mammigration is making women’s bodies safer than ever. It’s true! The descending breastiferous tissue acts as a counterweight for the ballast accumulating on our back porches. The downside, so to speak, is that with bodies so misshapen, falling may be the only exercise we can do.
So, just when I’d gotten used to the mammigration thing, I attended the Renaissance cleavage circus, and reawakened my sense of dismay. The event teemed with brocaded ladies, serving wenches, and the busty pirate babes I call “Captain Hookers.” They strutted around in mammiful corsets strained near to bursting with glandular phenomena that resembled rabid balloon animals.
Dear lords and ladies, NOBODY’S breastitude can be that high! How do those women breathe?? Was this a cleverly run mammoScam? I think not! Forsooth, I say we know real derma-firma when we see it! Egad, what could cause such acute busomation?? The logical answer…and let’s hope it’s covered under healthcare reform…
Collarbone goiters.
Copyright © 2010 by Mary Tompsett
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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.
