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Triathlete Blog

The Bigger The Better

By February 9, 2007June 3rd, 2015No Comments

Leave-it-to-cleavage was at swim practice yesterday. It’s the second time I’ve seen her there this week. I couldn’t help but notice her on Tuesday. What caught my eye was literally her left boob busting out of the side of her suit. She so badly needs a new suit that I want to give her one of mine. At least to cover one of her boobs. Yesterday, I thought her boobs would explode in a mess of lactic acid all over the lane after a hard set of 50’s. They are just that unruly and big and she was panting that hard.

Speaking of boobs, a few days ago I received some very boobalicious news. It was a friend that I hadn’t heard from in awhile. Her absence intrigued me, I suspected something was up.

The other day, the answer arrived. Enter one highly entertaining e-mail in which she finally confessed where she had been. The words BOOB JOB pop out of the e-mail, literally burst off the screen, into my eyes, and my mouth drops open, drool might have dropped out. I was stunned.

Of all the things I suspected – injury, illness, other major life change, this – this was not one of them. She had completed Ironman a few months earlier and Ironman is known to be a life changing event. It changes the way you think about the world, and the way you think about yourself. For me, Ironman completely eliminated any desire I have to clean my house. I’m not sure what that means but I’m going with it for now. Cleaning house is one thing, a new outlook on life another, but buying yourself a new set of boobs – that, my friends, is something entirely different.

At first I didn’t know what to say – congratulations? cheers? bon voyage my boobified friend? Is there a card I should send? A gift I should buy? Is it like a baby or even a wedding – do you register for new bras, tell your friends, and celebrate with a fabulous new selection of B-cups instead of double A’s?

At that same time, I wonder if I should be worried. Is there a revolution on the rise that I should be aware of that warrants envy, jealousy, or concern? Will I soon be in an even smaller minority of small-chested friends? I wonder if I should cite a warning – small-chested women of the world – BEWARE – for there is mutiny in the masses – no matter how tiny they are – a quiet unrest, a growing number of women who stopped growing before they even started. They’re taking matters into their own hands, they’re going under the knife, they’re buying what they rightfully should have been given in the first place. They are buying themselves boob jobs and they’re damn proud of it.

I try to picture my friend with bigger boobs but have a hard time. You see, we’re about the same size and it’s a strange camaraderie between little people. Little people share little laughs about their little this n’ that’s. But now that she’s got big this n’ that’s, she’s not part of the little cupcake club anymore. She went for the full blown scones. Somehow I can’t picture this – which might indicate a good thing that I am unable to visualize women with large breasts. Chalk up a point for me that indeed I have married the correct gender in case you were concerned about me and all this talk of boobs.

Immediately, more questions start popping up. I was curious – how did this happen? How did it feel? What do they look like? And, more importantly, how do they feel? Is it appropriate to ask to look, is it appropriate to want to look? I’m sure it would be totally inappropriate to touch so I promise I won’t make that kind of request. But what if the next time I find myself next to her in the locker room before swim practice and they just jump out and say take a squeeze. Will I be able to resist? I don’t know. How does one prepare for something like this?

I wonder what sealed the deal – what made her finally say I need these, I want theseNOW. The other day I had the same type of I NEED IT NOW urge about shoes and bought 4 pairs. But those are just shoes. You can put them on and take them off. Boobs – not the same. They’re pretty much there. For good.

Most importantly, though, I wonder if they look fake. Do they look like so-and-so with the fake boobs that we see at every major race and secretly whisper behind her back that over there is so-and-so with the fake boobs.

But I’m sure my friend got a better job done. Or something much more realistic. I’m sure she’s not standing there a little over 5 feet tall with double D’s. Right? I begin to wonder if she will rival leave-it-to-cleavage for the title of queen of bursting boobies in lane 3. Will I soon be offering her my swim cap to cover up her goods busting out the side of her now too small suit?

Then it hits me. A wave of envious despair. Though we often swim together on Saturday mornings, suddenly I realize she has made the ultimate in tactical moves to pull ahead of me – both literally and figuratively – in the pool. She has purchased the most evil form of unfair advantage, not only in daily life and interactions with the opposite sex, but in a domain even more important – masters swim team. I have visions of her enhanced with super boobie-powered buoyancy making her way through things I swimmingly struggle through like 10 x 200 on 2:45, 9 x 600 on 9:00, or – dear god – 400 IM.

That is SO unfair. I consider ways to slow her down. Sand in her swim cap? Fog in her goggles? Hanging on to her feet? Shout EVERYONE LOOK AT XXXX’S NEW BOOBS before taking off for a 50? Putting a laminated sign on the back of her swimsuit that says objects under this swimsuit are now bigger than they once appeared.

That’ll teach her.

Then I think about her husband. Generally a smiley guy, but I’m guessing this totally pushed him over the edge. I’m guessing he is literally smiling from ear to ear. Heck, he might have even gone in to get another ear just to smile even wider. Do you think they got a 2-for- 1 (sort of) deal? Is it appropriate to say congratulations the next time I see him at the gym? I could see my own husband, giddy like a small child waiting for Christmas thinking to himself today – TODAY – is the day that my wife gets bigger boobs. I have been waiting my whole life for this, he would say. I could even see him skipping.

Imagine you could have them but didn’t have to pay for them. Imagine you could instantly own two new bags full of fun. I imagine it would be the equivalent of me sitting there and suddenly a million dollars falls from the sky while I am simultaneously surrounded by buckets of ice cream, bags of peanut butter cups, and cowboys. All of my favorite things. It would be that good.

But everything in life comes with a cost. So I think about the recovery process, is there much pain involved. Not because I’ve ever considered it – oh no – but because I’m just curious. She tells me she’s been laid up for two weeks; no workouts, no running. The other day she took to the treadmill and was pleased to find they functioned quite well. Took them for their first run. It was just fine. There was no major boob slapping in the face, no injury to her back. Hmmmm…..bigger boobs and you can still run? Tell me why I haven’t done this yet?

Of course – the answer – someone has to be queen of the cupcake club. And who better suited for that position than me. But I’ll admit that there have been times – mostly in college when you don’t know any better and your whole life revolves around bars, boys, and – sadly – boobs – that I secretly wished for something bigger. But after awhile you realize these are the two boobs you were dealt so you might as well deal. At what point, then, do you decide you have dealt enough?

So I ask her. What made her do it? And then she confesses with a most simple answer to a highly complex question – she did it just because. Because she always wanted them. Because she was tired of walking around with two cupcakes formed in a size triple A muffin pan. Tired of looking like a 12-year old. Time to grow up and grow like the big girls. Time to wear big girl pants. And a big girl bra.

Honestly she admits that she hasn’t even had time to buy a new bra. In her words, she’s still stuffing a pound of potatoes in a half pound sack. Imagine the delight, the fun of shopping for new bras. I picture my friend walking into Victoria’s Secret, jutting her chest out, while saying – loudly of course – I AM LOOKING FOR THIS IN A PERFECT 34B with her husband standing next to her still smiling ear to ear.

We talk a little more about her new adventures with her new boobs and I see she is having fun with this, she is happy. So, I tell her to proudly embrace her new identity. In fact, I suggest an entirely new identity and christen her “boobalaroo”.

So, boobalaroo, this one’s for you. Enjoy your new big girls and live large from here on out. And if you’re looking for somewhere to dump all of your now-too-small jog bras, I’ll proudly accept them on behalf of the cupcake club. Tax deductible donation, of course.