The Dreaded Spread
WARNING: Female physiology will be discussed (at length) in this post
I always thought that middle-aged meant 45. Top-end could reach 50 or 51.5, given that my Granny lived to be 103. As I quickly approach the end of my late 50s, my math is no longer mathing.
Unless there are HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE medical advancements in the next few decades, I feel like the median age for women (ME) ain’t gonna be half of 116. This realization can, without a doubt, catapult me into full-on existential crisis, but we’re tamping that shit down to get to my current concerns.
What is the state of YOUR areolas?
You ever get out of the shower and notice a part of your body that’s never been on your radar? This morning, I noticed my areolas. Areolae? Should I be Latining that word?
I’m towelling off. Pat, pat, pat… Swab, swab, swab… Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy…
I focus for a split second on my chest.
I tilt my head.
I tilt it more.
How big are my areolas?
And here’s the kicker, given that I have a healthy rack, and I am not in my early 20s, I have to LIFT UP my breasts to see the full areolae area – their square inchage if you will.
First off, my areolas are not round. They are… oblong…!?! Have they always been oblong? Or is this the expected evolution of tres grandes tatas as they go from firm to… comfortably resting upon one’s torso?
Maybe if I just hold up the boobs, the areolae won’t… nope. Those suckers have definitely spread outward. Jesus! Are the bottom edges of these in line with my fucking hips?
“GAH!!!”
The dog comes to the bathroom door, giving me a what-is-happening-now? look.
Did I ever have dainty areolae? I can’t remember. I mean, back in the day, when Itsy and Bitsy still had perk, I don’t think I ever truly clocked that part of my body. To be sure, I’ve never been dainty, so it would be reasonable to expect that they were always larger to offset my bodacious bazoooms. And these girls are certainly no longer firm. I immediately squash them against my ribcage until they DO become firm.
I’ve now been holding onto my boobs for a while. I release them and find myself performing a hearty rendition of Do Your Tits Hang Low. The dog, again, shoots me a look.
I walk naked to the guest room, where I find my sewing toolbox. I grab my measuring tape. I think about skipping back to the well-lit bathroom, you know, to make this whole production more fun… But then, I remember that I’m not wearing a high impact sports bra. Fuck it! I hold the tape in one hand, press my boobs down with my other and skip back anyway. The dog, now lying by the toilet, only raises his eyebrows at this point.
When I was a teenager, if you talked about boobs at all, you talked about their size. How big they were. Big was good. Big was the goal. But perky. They had to be perky too. You had to pass the pencil test. Which… seriously? If you were anything more than a B cup that pencil was going to get stuck under there.
As you age, and your shoulders and back hurt, and you find yourself incredulous when the seven different measurements taken by the European bra calculator tells you that you’re a 36 fucking H cup — all you want is to be a perky 36 B, so that you won’t find yourself in the bathroom at 57 and 11/12 years of age hefting those boobs around to measure your fucking areolae.
I’ll cut to the chase. My areolae are SEVEN square inches. Nope. NOT SQUARE. They measure 2″ wide x 3.5″… oblong.
Why was it this particular morning that I happened to notice this? Who the fuck knows. Will I worry about it tomorrow? Probably not.
Our bodies are all wonderfully weird. We’ve all got shit going on. Nobody’s perfect. Revel in your imperfections. At least until you notice that one neck hair that wasn’t there yesterday and is two fucking inches long tomorrow.
