Bad, Worse, Worst.

Bad: Realizing your current bra size is a 32 Long.

Worse: Realizing that you must be a crazy, country grandma because you regularly keep stuff in your bra.

Worst: Not finding some of the stuff until the end of the day.

By the way, you might not want to ask to borrow my cell phone. Just sayin'.

There was a time when I was sure I wanted to have my breasts put back in their place. When my youngest sister got married, I saw my other sister naked quite a bit, when we were trying on bridesmaid dresses. Lo and behold, there were my old boobs, albeit on someone else's chest. It was then that I realized how the mighty had fallen. And deflated. I got depressed, just a little. I mean, I have plenty of high tech (and high priced!) bras that do what they need to do, but I sometimes wonder what it would be like to buy a shirt or a dress without worrying that my foundation garment might not fit under it. And most of the stuff I wear underneath my clothes isn't fun and cute; it's utilitarian and expensive. I love expensive stuff, but I like to get some fun for my money.

After my second child was born, I pledged to wait five years after I was finished breastfeeding and assess the situation. I was pretty sure I would go ahead with the re-placement of my breasts then. As things go, I got pregnant again before the five years was up*. Once again, I've decided that I'll wait five years after he's finished breastfeeding and see how I feel. If I still care, I'll get the lift. Maybe. You see, I'm not so sure now. I thought this might happen, which is why I've always given myself the grace period. After a few years, you get used to the way things are. I no longer lament the time it takes me to roll them up and stuff them in another expensive carrier each time I get dressed. I know which bras fit me best and I know how to find them on Ebay or at tullulah. And, at my age, I really don't need to be rocking tube tops, no matter where my breasts are.

After my third c-section, I also realized that recovering from an operation isn't really much fun, and my recoveries have been relatively easy. I'm not sure I'm willing to do it if I don't end up with something really awesome, like a kid. Breasts would be really great, but I had them before and I don't remember my quality of life being any better. I hate pain and I hate not being able to exercise, so the prospect of having to take any down time after an operation isn't appealing. Also, I saw a film of the operation at the gym (where I get my television fix, since we don't have one). It was scary. I know I'd be asleep and all, but it was really, really gross. Seriously.

I do have an agreement with one of my girlfriends: If I'm ever in a coma, she has sworn that she will force my doctor to give me a breast lift and maybe a bikini wax for good measure**. I tried to get my doctor to go ahead and give me a bikini wax during my last c-section, but they didn't have the equipment and frankly, I probably wouldn't have wanted to rock a bikini immediately after the birth anyway. I also tried to get him to give me some sort of combined c-section/tummy tuck, like the stars get. He said that was more or less a myth and not really possible. Apparently, those stars actually have to breastfeed, exercise and eat less, just like the rest of us; they just have more help, so it works quicker. I do think it's important that I make this declaration official:

If I wake up from a coma with these same old boobs, someone's in big, big trouble.

You are all responsible now, because I would hate to waste a good coma. Please go ahead and bookmark this entry, so you can forward it to my doctor if the need arises. Thank you.

Namasté, y'all!

* Just so you know, the second child was really supposed to be our last. We even had the consultation for the Big V, we were so sure our family was complete. But my husband is a slacker and never followed up by getting the actual vasectomy and, one night, after a couple drinks, one or the other of us (we can't remember who) asked the other if he/she ever thought about having a third child. Baby J is very, very cute and we all love him very, very much. The End.

** Incidentally, all of my girlfriends and I have agreed to pluck each other's random facial hairs if we are ever in comas. You may want to make this agreement with some of your closest friends, too. Don't bother telling your husband, because he would probably just think you were joking. Take care of this today; you won't be sorry.