the story of boob juice

A woman I know once wrote an outraged essay about why we should not use the word “boob” to describe breasts.  While I respect her choice to call her mammary glands whatever the hell she wants, I love to call mine boobs.  Maybe, in part, because I can still so vividly recall all the other things they’ve been called: concave, mosquito bites, what boobs, where?  The fact that someone is calling my breasts “boobs” means that they are, in fact, visible to onlookers and for that, my thirteen year-old self remains eternally glad.  I wear my boobs like two badges of pre-pubesent honor (and display them prominently in the masthead of my blog).

In addition to giving me the excuse to prominently feature a picture of the biggest boobs I’ve ever had in my life on the front of this blog,  I like that “boob juice” has (at least) two, seemly contradictory, meanings.

First, it is the rich, nurturing, life giving  milk that amazingly flowed through my breasts to feed my precious child.  How cool is that?!  It even clears up problem skin when you dab some on a crusty-ass zit, but I digress…  It is magical, life-giving stuff, and when all systems are go, it can flow through you effortlessly (and unexpectedly) — if only I could write as freely as I could lactate; my words squirting out uncontrollably might beam you in the back of the head.

I like that “boob juice” can also mean the spewings of a “boob” — the person kind of boob.  You know, a slightly inept, doofy sort of person and the possibly incoherent ramblings that might burst from her mouth.  This, too, is fitting in describing this blog.  Perhaps more fitting than the other definition.

When I was pregnant, cells started to seep from my brain to fortify and protect the cells rapidly dividing in my uterus.  We called this lack of ability to remember words or complete sentences, “pregnancy head.”

Once I gave birth and began to nurse my daughter, brain cells flowed freely out of  my mammary glands every time my baby even so much as looked in my general direction – I could feel them tingling their way out.  I don’t really have a name for this sort of mental deficiency; I don’t have enough brain cells left to think of one.  All I know is that as the boob juice flowed, the brain juice congealed and was not so readily available to power this newfangled thinking contraption in my head.

The beauty of this condition is that it has managed to outlast pregnancy and even nursing.  Despite the fact that my little creature is now fully weened, I am still experiencing a tragic and entertaining dimness of intellect.

Because of this lack of mental acuity, sometimes I am able to see the world in a whole new way.  And sometimes this shift in perspective makes things pretty darn amusing.

I am happy to be a “boob” with “boobs.”

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