I think my friends kind of love how crass I am. At least I think they do. They laugh at my candid no holds barred attitude when it comes to gross things. Maybe they’re laughing because they’re scared or because this is the shit that people don’t ever talk about, yet we know it all exists. Like the fact that your toenails smell like cheese when you cut them (don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about), among other gems.
So I got to talking about various weird things about pregnancy, one of them being my boobs, and the size of them. They never really shrank back to original size after the Mini was born, and I’m not one of those girls that was lacking in the breast department, oh, ever, so this kind of sucks a little. And of course, getting pregnant again, they’re now approximately the size of the Santa parade float in the Macy’s Day Parade. Each. They are now so big that I have lost various articles under there, including the dog. They’re also now so big that I need to get under there with toner and I have included them in my daily deodorant applying routine.
I actually pulled a Mary Catherine Gallagher one day, except instead of my armpits, it was my cleave and you get where I’m going with this.
Folks, if you’re well endowed and you get pregnant, you will have to up your underboob cleansing routine. And you’ll also find it comfortable to stuff your shirt under your boobs during the bra free times.
This has been a public service announcement. Oh, and if you find my dog, can you please send her back?