Monday, August 25, 2008

Boys don't have Boobs

I have a personal coach for the Triathlon. He's ranked 3rd in the country for his age group and he's actually willing to help me; probably because I know his mom. He's 13. There are a number of problems associated with our age gap. For instance, he just started high school so he's got his own problems. I think 9th grade was the worst year of my life. I was terribly shy and so my only goal was to disappear by looking and acting as much like everyone else as possible. This was pretty difficult, as I was a 5'10" white girl with red hair and going to a predominantly African-American school. But I tried anyway.

When I see my coach in public, I try to downplay myself because nothing is more embarrassing than a grown-up. I mean really. We're so stupid and we don't even know how to have fun anymore. Plus we dress like weirdos.

He's taken the time to chart out my training schedule with lots of swimming, biking, running, and weight lifting. He looked at my bike and reassured me that it used to be a nice bike (that's nice). Then he taught me how to pass people ... as if. He also explained how to negotiate turns without crashing into a herd of people. I was, however, more interested in fuel. My fuel, to be exact.

"What do you think I should eat?" I inquired.
"Protein bars during the race, pasta the night before"
"No, I mean all the time. What do you think I should eat everyday? How many calories, fat, carbo's, protein?"
"Oh! I just eat whenever I'm hungry."

Oh, I see now! Just eat whenever you're HUNGRY!? Wow, I've never heard of that, or ya, now I remember. YOUR A 13 YEAR-OLD BOY! How can I explain to him that when I eat "whenever I'm hungry" I grow food babies all over me. That's what I call my rolls of fat: Food Babies. Depending on what I've had for dinner, they might be named Luigi, or Javier, or Mac. They love me and hang all over me. Sometimes I have to tuck them into my low rise jeans when I sit down because they want to just pop right out and join the party. When my Food Babies need exercise, I squoosh them into spandex so they'll settle down and let mommy exercise. Thanks to my training, they're getting smaller, though. So are the fat wings.

I was talking to his mom last night and she's volunteered to be my pit crew. She used my place mats and tableware on my dining room table to demonstrate what the course will look like. She used a napkin to simulate my "transition area" and explained that when I'm finished with the swim portion, I'm to run to my "transition area" and slip on my sneakers .... "Wait!" I stop her. "What about my boobs?"

Because she's only been a pit crew for a 13 year old boy, she has no idea what I'm getting at. "How can I run in a swimsuit for Pete's sake? I'll need to strap these babies down." I'm talking like they're big or something. They're not at all large, just floppy. She waved at the question like an imaginary fly and said "You'll have to figure that out." Humph, some pit crew. I have to do all the work.

When researching this issue, I interviewed Gina who out-boobs me by at least two letters of the alphabet. She said I'll go to Fleet Feet and some nice young woman will hold my boobs in both her hands while she asks me questions. Then she'll tell me the exact right bra to get. Hmmm, I wonder what she looks like. Can I choose which girl it is? It seems like I could have all the clerks line up and I could decide who gets this great honor. I would inspect their hands and check for temperature and moisture. I would hate cold clammy girl hands on my boobs. I wouldn't want her to be too rough, either. Gina said she'd love to come with me.

Its only right for me to take care of my boobs, after all, a portion of the proceeds from the triathlon will be going to benefit saving boobs from breast cancer. If you go on and click, you'll be helping to provide women with free mammograms! That's just amazingly easy. So, don't be a breast hater, click on the website and let's smash somebody's tits in a cold steal clamper machine until they're as flat as empty mittens. It may save her life.


  1. That Gina sounds like a great friend, and I love to read her funny and insightful comments. Good for you to have such a nice person in your life.

  2. A bra fitting is quite the experience. I was in Paris, and I had been invited to Nice for the weekend by Jean-Louis, a wonderful French fling. But I had no bikini! So I went in to La Perla, where the saleswoman did just what you describe - she grabbed my breasts and hefted them around. Then she explained that they had nothing "quite so large - our clothes are for the French frame". Because my gargantuan 34D breasts are so ridiculously, huge, right? Her voice was that oh-so-special tone that only the French have completely mastered, and it was clear she thought my chest was grotesque. However, she eventually agreed to look at her stock and she found a suitable selection, including the sexiest bathing suit that made me feel gorgeous. Although I can't wear that suit anymore - two kids do reshape the frame - I still have it tucked away. It reminds me of one of the most romantic experiences I've ever had in my life. With Jean-Louis, not the salesgirl.

    Good luck with your triathalon. I don't think boobs are a problem for most triathaletes - I think they burn off with the calories!


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