The Mammary Explosion

Warning: This could be rated "girls only"

I've been retouching seniors (the ones in high school, not geriatric folks) for a long time now. When I first started doing it at home Ron would invariably walk in, take a look at the girl on the screen and ask, "How old is SHE?" My reply was always the same: "She's a senior in high school." Right now I'm having a powerful attack of deja vu, like I've already told that story. I can only hope that all my readers are as daft as I am and can't remember either. Anyway. Always the same question, always the same answer. Maybe we'd follow up with a brief conversation about how the girls we went to high school with never looked like these gals.

I think it's mainly the large boobs on these girls (pardon my frankness) that makes them look ten years older than they are. It's getting a bit ridiculous. Some of these girls are going to need to start wearing counter weights hanging from their bums lest they tip over. I can't help but think that in 40 years there's going to be some major saggage and sore backs. I'm not sure there's a correlation between breast size and breast cancer, but I'm sure some medical researcher somewhere is spending lots of grant money to figure it out.

I've read that this "big development" is caused by the drugs they pump into our protein sources, namely poultry and beef. And then I heard something about the plastic storage containers we use? I give up. Pretty soon they'll try to convince us that smoking is bad for us. What???? Oh.

Moving on to other things that females routinely fret about . . . I am so ready to be in menopause I can hardly stand it. Every month I pray and pray . . . and every month I'm sorely disappointed. It's the headaches, cramps, tenderness . . . the whole ordeal. Thirty-five years of it. I just know if I go to Costco and buy a thousand tampons it'll happen next month and then I'll be forced to sell the surplus on Craig's List. Enough already! Knowing me and my flair for the dramatic, once it does happen I'll probably wail for a year or two that I can't bear children anymore, that my womanhood is gone, that I miss the monthly inconvenience and blinding mood swings. I give you permission to slap me. Several times. But, you never know. I might just slap you back!