Living in a World of Perky Breasts

I tell myself I love my breasts.  I tell myself they look amazing for having nursed three children.  I tell myself, "For 38 years old, they look great. You're lucky they aren't totally facing south."  But I still don't quite believe it.

Numerous of my girlfriends have had breast jobs post-childbirth.  Lifts and /or augmentations.  They've proudly lifted their shirts and showed me, their happiness plain to see.  And I'm happy for them.  I WANT them to feel fabulous about how they look and who they are.  If a lift or tuck elevates their self-image, then all the power to them.

But now I'm surrounded by so many 'perfect' breasts, I wonder about my own.  Sure, I can conceal the fact they're lower and not as full with a good push-up bra.  Sure, I still have cleavage and I like the size of my nipples. 

But I'm also recently divorced.  I'm back out on the dating scene and exposing this 38-year-old, post-childbirth body to new lovers.  Hence, I wonder...  I doubt....  And in the throws of passion, I'm happier if my lacy bra doesn't come off; for do the men care if they dangle, swing or remain motionless?  Or are they just happy to be having sex at all?  *grin.

Either way, I've no intention of getting a breast job.  I'm going to live with what I have because I don't think my breasts are 'bad enough' - for now anyways.  They may not be "perfect," but they're real.  And if I keep repeating my mantras long enough, perhaps one day I'll believe that all my pregnancy war wounds -  the lower breats, the C-section scar, the hamburger belly - are not markings of shame, but badges of honor.  

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