My husband and I waded out into the water at a local lake a few days ago. "Isn’t this wonderful?" I commented to him.
"Fabu … YOWIE!" My husband shot out of the water like an acrobat launched from a canon.
"What’s wrong?" I yelled as he landed back in the water.
"A fish just bit my nipple! he shouted as he grabbed his chest. As the kids and I made a protective circle around him, he checked for permanent damage and said, "Man, that really hurt."
"That fish must have thought your nipple was food," I theorized. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself that my husband had finally discovered what it was like to be a woman.
The minute our breasts begin to grow as young girls, we start to have issues that completely separate us from the male race altogether. We have to buy a special undergarment in various colors, shapes, and sizes that wraps around our chest like duct tape and often comes with wires sewn into the bra which helps lift up our breasts so they rest comfortably under our chins. We realize that our breasts now have a purpose – as a shelf that catches all food drippings and keeps them from landing on our white pants.
Several years later, just as we finally figure out what our true bra size really is, then we grasp the concept that men actually want us to go without a bra. Then, it’s time to get married and have babies … babies who immediately begin to utilize our breasts on a 24/7 basis. Suddenly, we feel like a milking machine at a dairy farm. Then our cute little babies grow teeth, which promptly cause every milk-laden mother to propel out of her glider rocker and bellow, "YOWIE! THAT HURTS!" while simultaneously deciding that sippy cups are the best invention ever made (next to fake nipples and baby formula).
Before long, our little babies grow up to be teenagers and just as we’re ready to take them bra shopping for the first time, our gynecologist says with a smile, "Hey, guess what it is time for now?" Suddenly, your breasts are smashed between two really big microscope slides by a friendly technician who tries to make small talk with you despite the fact that your face has turned an interesting shade of purple and you’re wearing a paper gown that really serves no purpose since you’re exposing more to the world than a Playboy model. To top it off, the technician then has the audacity to say, "Now don’t breathe!" in a very gregarious voice (like you were even able to breathe in the first place!" as she tightens the screws on the large slides and then disappears for what seems to be an eternity. You stare down at your breast. If only you had some syrup, you could serve that puppy up for breakfast.
Then before you know it, you’re eighty years old and you’re having trouble tying your shoelaces because your breasts keep getting in the way. You try tucking them in your knee-highs, but that just looks silly, so then you buy one of those really big white bras that is created from just two materials – chicken wire and attic insulation.
Suddenly, I am propelled back into reality by my husband’s voice, "Do you see any blood anywhere?" he says while carefully examining his scarred nipple.
"Oh buck up for goodness sake," I impatiently reply back. "Your nipple is a hearty body part that can handle all kinds of abuse, even by a confused flounder."
"Hey, I just want to catch fish. I don’t want to date them," he said sarcastically as he made his way back to shore.
I look down at my breasts that thankfully, are still hanging somewhere in the midwestern region of my body. I quietly say to them, "Please don’t move to Florida yet."
So far, they’re listening.