My chest is Kim Kardashian
Spare a thought, if you will, for my boobs.
Euwh, not that kind of thought.
Allow me to rephrase that. A little sympathy, people, for my boobs.
For the entirety of their existence they've had very little to do. Flirting. Getting swift service at bars. Restricting the kinds of outfits I could wrangle myself into. These were the only real functions they had. They were purely decorative and I don't want to sound like a braggard but I was extremely happy with how they performed in that regard. Nice one, girls. Lookin' good.
When you think about it, considering what they're actually for, it's a bit strange that we consider boobs as sexy.
But soon they will be called upon to fulfill their mammalian destiny. Yes, they'll actually have to do something. And so I feel sorry for them. After so long just cruising by on their looks this is going to come as a bit of a shock, I'm sure. I mean, imagine if Kim Kardashian was suddenly forced to become a chartered accountant? No, I can't quite imagine that either.
I remember an episode of Murphy Brown years ago in which the eponymous and ascerbic heroine said that suddenly producing milk from a part of your body that had never done that before was like waking up one morning and finding you could get bacon out of your elbow. Which sounds kind of great, actually and would certainly save trips to the butcher but is a very strange notion indeed.
Later today I will be attending an antenatal breast feeding class. If my boobs are about to get a whole new occupation I feel as if this is when they do their vocational exams. And "OH MY GOD, I HAVEN'T STUDIED!". My previous exam-taking strategy of cramming for two days beforehand and rocking up with a bottle of water, a selection of pens, and a packet of Skittles may not be successful in this situation. But I might get the Skittles anyway.
It's almost as if The Girls wilfully skipped out on their scheduled career guidance classes at high school with nary a backwards glance, preferring to spend time in the lingerie department at Farmers instead. The closest brush they've had with "employment" would be the numerous times that other people's babies have made a lunge for them. Because babies, kind of like creepy drunkards, don't much care who the boobs are attached to. They are total mammary-sluts, babies.