A day nearer my thirties and this is not so much about what I’ve learnt but what I’ve noticed. My tits clap now. Yes that’s right, running up stairs, charging down the escalator, having sex, they clap. My tits actually applaud me. Thankfully I’ve learnt I’m not the only one and, like my friend who I discussed this with at length yesterday, we’ve found there is no preventing it.
The entire of Agent Provocateurs Spring/Summer collection could not stabilise these boobs. However, perhaps owing to my new found maturity as I approach my dirty thirties, instead of pawning everything I own to pay for surgery, I actually find it quite amusing and a little endearing.
I like to think they are actually clapping joyously as I bound up the stairs “Oh all that extra weight on her and she still caught the train!” Or as I Hoover “Well done! You’ve mustered the energy to do the housework! What a productive day we’re bound to have!” Or whilst fucking they exclaim “She’s still got it! Hallelujah!”
Having a mind that is warped by self-deprecating thoughts, it’s really rather wonderful to have such positive feedback from my boobies. It’s like they’re fighting back, boosting my self confidence each time they slap together. I mean, I’m sure as the rest of me starts to sag, blind panic will ensue and I shall be hot footing it to a surgeon, demanding an full body overhaul but for now it would seem I have to admit, maybe mother is right? You do become more body confident in your 30’s.
