Breasts Gone Lemming

There was a time when I needed a sports bra for doing sport, not watching it. Sadly that time is past. Of course I didn’t know it until last week when my gynea – wearing a look of concerned pity that said “at least you don’t have ebola” – told me I did.

“You’re getting older,” she announced. Apparently this means the puppies need a firmer harness; the equivalent of moving from a silk cord to a choke chain.

If this is how they plan to behave, I think they need more than that; they need linguistic reassignment! The zest with which they’re heading South suggests lemming more than puppy. I shared my thoughts with Dr R, whose muttering I took to mean that no matter which furry mammal I named them after, my breasts needed firm, functional support, not the rainbow bits of silky magic lining my drawer.

The lemmings are being a pain in the breast.

And that’s why I went to see the gynea in the first place. I pointed out to her that I hadn’t suffered this kind of pain or enjoyed this kind of plumpness since I was pregnant. She said, a little too quickly, that she didn’t think pregnancy was a possibility. Now I know it’s not, unless sperm has a 10 year hibernation period, but I expected her to be a little more optimistic. Hell, I’m paying her for optimism! And apparently for corsetry advice.

I feel the lemmings are letting me, and of course themselves, down. Not because they’re succumbing to the flirtations of gravity, but because they’re blatantly displaying the fact that my hormones are going from crazy to lazy. (Odd though how my mind still opts for the former.)

What do I wear on that side of the hill?

By way of explanation she drew a graph that looked suspiciously like a hill. She explained about oestrogen and progesterone and peri-somethings and other things I would have paid attention to if not distracted by the fact that the little red dot representing me was just over the pinnacle of the hill-graph, on the downward slope.

Dressed to travel, because it's hot on the other side of the hill.

Dressed to travel, because it’s hot on the other side of the hill.

I’m not ready for all of this. For discussions on pills that regulate periods. And wondering if it’s really hot or if it’s me having flashes. And I’m definitely not ready for sports bras that make my chest look like something that’s been bandaged up under a pyramid for a few thousand years.

So I’ve taken to walking around the house without a shirt on and taking selfies of the lemmings wearing gorgeous bras and occasionally glitter. If I’m heading to the place where I’m gearing up to go over that hill, then I claim the right to do it with awesomeness!

Yup, we’ve got out travelling clothes on, the lemmings and me. We’re admiring the view and planning our wardrobe for the downhill slalom.

Do Popstars Want My Panties?

Right now, while I'm braving the toxic waste depository that my son calls a bedroom, my 21 year old self is back stage with Skrillex.

Right now, while I’m braving the toxic waste depository that my son calls a bedroom, my 21 year old self is back stage with Skrillex.

Here’s why I won’t fling my bra or flash my boobs at Skrillex: because as the 80’s song says, “some things hurt more, much more, than cars and girls.” And bouncing around braless at age 39, with 2 years of breastfeeding in your past, definitely qualifies as one of those things.

I won’t wear anything I need a Brazilian for

I suppose there’s always the option of throwing panties instead of bras. But that’s only sexy if they’re made of sunshine and silk. Unfortunately I moved from fun to functional in the underwear department years ago. If it can’t go in the washing machine then it can’t come into the house. There was a stage when I had the time to lovingly hand-wash my delicates in lemon-scented soap. That was back when I didn’t yet know that Barney loved me … or that I loved him too. Back before I knew the joys of eating the gobby bolus my two year old spat into my hand because the art gallery we were in at the time didn’t consider dustbins modern or arty enough to feature. Back when I could still pee in peace without the Elf Lord on the other side of the door begging me to help him punch in the cheat codes on his new xbox game.

In other words, back when Skrillex was still in nursery school.

As matter stand now though, I have a choice of assorted colourful but comfortable (slightly faded by my fabulous washing machine) Woolworths’ panties. Not the sexy teeny tiny kind; the type that comes in packs of five in a cut no-doubt designed to double as birth control.

39 going on 21

Ejecting Skrillex from my laptop – in favour of someone I once owned on vinyl – I’m thinking that I lost I decade somewhere. 39 has arrived suspiciously quickly! And although my body apparently got the memo that I’m getting older, and responded with the unlikable haste of that hand-waving kid at the front of the class; my mind is still dawdling along, peeling a popped chewing gum bubble off her nose and imagining that time is meandering slowly in her wake.

The possibility that our minds exist in a different reality and time-stream from our bodies is one of those strange temporal phenomenon that quantum physicists are working to unravel. In our teens and early twenties our minds are years older than our bodies. And then at some point our minds get caught in a forever-young time loop and our bodies surge ahead at warp speed. Right now my mind is happily weighing up the pros and cons of blue versus silver body glitter and marrying either George Michael or Freddy Mercury.

The two worlds only collide for brief moments when, for example, I face the terror that is the change room mirror. Or when Skrillex is in town.

Don’t call me mommy

This makes me wonder if there’s really a chance of me braving a Skrillex concert; other than to drop my son off I mean. And I suppose not. There’s always the embarrassing possibility of a bouncer singling me out and leading me quietly backstage; not because Skrills wants me in his dressing room, but because they have moral issues with adults taking pics of the kids.

Argh, why I am even agonising over this? Skrillex isn’t even my type! I usually apportion my groupie love based on beautifully written lyrics. If a song has less than 30 words and a fair percentage are bleeped out, then you didn’t really “write” a song did you? You scored some music. (Possibly, along with some high-quality narcotics.) You know what I mean right baby, baby, baby, oh, like baby, baby, baby, oh? Still, there’s something about this cute boy with a half-shaved head, geek glasses and piercings that makes me want to dance like no one’s watching and slip the word “bangarang” into sentences.

Rest your guitar on the zimmer frame

So in an effort to coerce my body and mind into occupying more or less the same time and space, I’ve decided to stick to bands I listened to when I was 16. Back when bras were an optional extra and panties looked like dental floss. And if I see them live and I’m in the Golden Circle the only thing I’ll flash is a smile. And I’ll throw something better than a bra onstage; maybe liniment rub or corn plasters. Then maybe I’ll come home, let my 21 year old dance topless, make sure my 39 year old self has the presence of mind to close the blinds, and let both of them play the music so bleep, bleep, bleep-bleeping loud that the neighbours complain about the bangarang!