A boob at every door
You know the morning rush. As my husband opens the front door to leave:
B: What’s this hanging on the doorknob?
Me: Oh, that’s just my boob. They told me they’d deliver it. I guess they just hung it there.
Like fresh baked bread. At least, that’s how it used to be at my in-laws house. Alas, no more.
I guess if you lose a little or gain a little, your foob doesn’t follow along with you. I’ve noticed my fakie getting bigger over the past months and realized it’s time to size down. Sigh. We get a free resize within our first year thanks to our national health care. And a replacement each year the next five years. Now I know why women amass several. That’s great for a country with the highest worldwide prevalence of breast cancer.
Anyway, I thought I would post the size difference between small and even smaller. Don’t they look like slugs? We have lots of them here in Denmark. They stop after that size I’m pretty sure. I guess I’ll keep the old one for whenever I travel to the U.S. For some uncanny reason, I gain a few pounds when I go home. Too much eating and sitting I guess. I’ll call that my U.S. breast. The other one on the left is the Danish one, for when I’m running around and riding my bike and not eating the foods that I eat in the U.S.
Such a subtle size difference, but totally noticeable compared to my survivor breast. Trust me. You’d notice right away.