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March 8, 2010 | by  | in Opinion |
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Nos-tal-gee-uh: the boob punch


“Hey look, I wrote 80085 on my calculator!”

My breasts. My ample bosom. My lovely Lady Pillows. Whatever you call them, I am stuck with them. And so is every other female on earth.

Without my assets, life was simple. Everyday tasks such as wearing a seatbelt, running, and holding a conversation with a male sales assistant were less than exhausting. The Boob Punch was also an ineffective form of torture. Every so often, I make the mistake of violently wrenching open the door to my shower box, thwacking myself square in the left bosom. I grabble at myself and whimper like a kicked puppy, reciting a colourful list of obscenities that would make any drunken sailor proud. But amidst my pain it always comes back to the fact that life was safer without my fun-bags.

I don’t proclaim to be well-endowed or possess a chest that can make grown men cry, but when my singlet falls particularly low, I get scolded for looking like a harlot. Apparently my jiggly bits aren’t appreciated at the cafe table. So I frown and adjust myself, knowing that they’re sizeable enough to make life more difficult. Not that I want to have them removed to aid my plight for a carefree existence, but I can understand the long-told story of Amazonian women slicing off their right gazonga to make breast use of their bow and arrows.

It’s not something I sit around and actively ponder, what life would be like without Bonnie and Clyde. But as the temperature begins to soar and the sun glares down on Wellington, scolding the city like a spoilt child, I envy those agonisingly attractive men who use any excuse near a beach to remove their shirt in an effort to cool off. Bitch please, I used to be able to do that.

With Wellington City Council relaxing their laws about public nudity on beaches, I probably still could. Just think about that—removing your clothes and basking in all your natural glory on Oriental Parade. Are you uncomfortable yet? Now, aged 20, I cringe and curl up in a ball at the thought of having to remove my top in public. But it wasn’t always so, and 14 years ago, I lacked certain endowments that allowed me to run wild and rampant along Days Bay.

I’ve told it only gets worse from here on in, and I shouldn’t take my melons for granted. One day, as Mrs Bennet warns me, my Egg McMuffins are going to form an exploration party and head south. Already petrified, television campaigns advise me of free mammogram services for women over 45 years of age. Now I know why gravity will ruin my life; my Tata Twins will need to dangle as if independent from my body before I make the insane decision to place them in a glorified sandwich press.

Christ. I think I’m going to stick to self-searching in my shower after the weekly Boob Punch for now.

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