PostSecret is a weekly blog featuring homemade postcards portraying people’s secrets. The postcards are mailed anonymously, and the secrets range from cute and funny to pathetic and heartbreaking. I stumbled across PostSecret in 2005 and became hopelessly addicted. To commemorate my six-year anniversary of PostSecret addiction and because some secrets are too awesome, crazy, or stupid to be forgotten, I am going to pick my favorite secret from the blog each Sunday and share my thoughts on it.
This week’s favorite: Breasts as Big as Mom’s
This reminds me of when I visited home last year and saw my mother’s breasts while she was changing. I am a 32DD, which means I am acutely aware that 10 years from now, I will probably require something along the lines of a massive breast lift (pun intended). I inherited my proportions from my mother, who is taller and bigger than I am, and whose breasts are, accordingly, larger than mine. Considering that she was 54 years old at the time, I expected her womanly bits to be a little, if not a lot, on the saggy side. The moment she pulled up her shirt, I prepared for a glimpse of an inevitable, hopeless future–my future–that can be mitigated only by loads of money and a well-executed reduction mammaplasty. I looked away for a moment, feeling a mixture of modesty and panic, then steeled myself and stared this future right in the eyes. To my surprise, I saw not an image of gravity-ravaged despair but a pair of shockingly, obscenely perky breasts–obscene because no woman at her size and age should be allowed to have such breasts without the aid of silicone and a skilled plastic surgeon. I watched them as they jiggled and bounced to her movements, mystified. How did my mother, of all people, bypass the fate of every reasonably endowed, middle-aged woman, and did it mean that I, in due course, would exhibit the same immunity?
Probably, I decided. Yet, I didn’t feel safe leaving matters entirely to chance. Things happen. I could wake up one day with elephantiasis in one breast. Or I could be struck by cancer that requires a mastectomy. Or, I could discover, at my mother’s age, that genetics played a cruel trick and that I actually did not inherit my mother’s epidermal elasticity. I’ve seen enough old people to know that at some point, tragedy will befall the flesh, and when that time comes, I want to be ready. And that’s why I’m still saving up for that boob job.