I was told by two women yesterday that I have perfect breasts. Not just perfect but textbook perfect. These two women who were really, and I mean really checking them out too. Okay, yeah, they were mammogram technicians, but still, they said I have perfect breasts!
I was too shocked to hear everything they said but apparently my breasts have just the right combination of muscle and other tissue which means they present wonderfully on the mammogram machine. One of the technicians said I could be a model for the textbook they used in their training. Me, a model. Oh, yeah.
Maybe it really did help when my cousins and I, in our early teens, pushed our hands together in front of our chests and chanted, “we must, we must, we must increase our bust…”
I felt good about this news… until I thought about it some more while walking to my car. Something just wasn’t right. I wanted to believe them of course but it just didn’t make sense. I mean, if my breast muscle is so darn great then why is that on this same body, mere centimeters away as the flea flies, do I have the most flippity-floppy triceps muscles imaginable? Huh? Huh? How do you explain that mammogram professionals?
Also, if my breasts are so great then why have I never been able to find a bra that really fits? No, no, something just isn’t quite right here.
Finally, I realized what they were really saying to me: my breasts look good when tightly pressed and flattened between two paddles on an x-ray machine. Of course, only flippity-floppy breasts can look good under those conditions. Oh well, at least they match my triceps.