Although my girls were early bloomers, I don't expect at this late date that they will ever blossom into full figured, mature women. And, unfortunately, I don't have as much fun dressing them up and taking them out as I did in the early days. In fact, the girls have developed some concerning conduct problems.
My ever increasingly introverted girls tend to often disappear into my armpits or sneak under the wire and repel down my belly, where they both hide-out in my navel. I can't decide, for behavior modification purposes, if I should lift and separate them, or push them up and make them work as a team.
Either way, the girls and I, all three, agree it's only a myth that the mind goes first.
My husband, clearly uninformed about foundation garments, and not understanding girls in the least, by admission, suggested that I surprise them with an eighteen hour, cross my heart and hope for bigger ones bra. I think he's misguidedly envisioning the sudden dissolution of fiber at the expiration of the guaranteed time frame, when the girls will joyously burst free from their restraints and jump out at him, like Marilyn Monroe (and her girls) from a cake.
Whoo, just thinking about it turns his face red.
Unluckily, my girls feel more at home in Wonder Woman Underoos. But, yelling, "Girl power," and jumping off a bench in the Ladies First Fitness locker room frequently lead to police involvement and cancelled memberships. The girls get real down about that.
So I tried the much advertised Wonder bra, as a reasonable substitute, which promised to turn my mole hills into mountains and chasms into crests, and the marvel of making bosoms on the flattest woman's chest. It synthetically elevated my little female friends to the 8th wonder of the world, ironically, filling in the deepest ditches since the Grand Canyon.
And the spectacles and phenomena never cease. I think the Vatican launched a serious inquiry into the claims of the Miracle bra shortly after the girls sang, loudly, in the Macy's lingerie dressing room, "Ooh, we're a believer, we couldn't leave her if we tried."
Halfway to the mall's main entrance the bottom dropped out.
I don't know what facts the papacy found, but no matter how I harness the girls into that brassier and pray, they always come out sagging like a pair of under-filled, mismatched water balloons. Even if a network of nuns individually hand washes each undergarment in holy water, nothing mystical, for me at least, will materialize from the cups of creation.
Currently, Convertible bras are all the rage. Again, my spouse suggested I purchase one and let the ladies see how they like it. "What does it do," I asked.
"Lets you go topless," he responded, in his best 1970's Starsky and Hutch impersonation. "Chicka, chicka chow wow. Chicka, chicka chow wow."
Get back Kojak.
Since starring in my personal production of the Legend of the Fall, the only hope the girls have for ever rising above themselves is a couple of over the shoulder ratchet straps and an alum wrench, or a wickedly good plastic surgeon. But the girls and I have been together for quite some time, and after all these years I couldn't bear to bare them to just anybody.
All in all, through the shriveling and dribbling they've remained authentic. That's what girlfriends are for. And heaven knows when I've grown too old to bend over and touch my toes, my true and faithful friends, the girls, will stretch down and touch them for me.