Who left these breasts on the floor? Oh, my bad.

I put myself through college by working in a nursing home, so I knew what was going to happen to my somewhat sizable breasts when I got older.  I knew INTELLECTUALLY what was going to happen to my breasts when I got older.  No amount of observation of the elderly breasts of other women actually prepares you for the day you realize that your own nipples are migrating toward your belly button.  Quickly.

Once this starts actually happening to you, you find yourself getting emotional about things that never made you upset before.  For example, when a corset-seller at a Renaissance Faire refers to the act of lifting the breasts into their proper position before tightening the corset as "fluffing" you suddenly want to scream "HOISTING!!  Just say it and bring out the damn crane!"   Oh, and when that song "Night Moves" by Bob Seger plays, and he sings the line ". . .way up firm and high," you get all nostalgic and misty-eyed.  Not over the song, just about the days when your's used to be firm and high.

Because I have a vivid imagination, I often find myself wondering how low they will go and then torturing myself with worst possible scenarios.  Someday I am going to be tying my shoes and I will get a nipple caught in the knot.  Eventually I am going to turn around too quickly with my bra off and hit my partner in the eye.  It doesn't help things that my own mother told me once that she knew a woman who could throw her breasts over her shoulders.  Gee, thanks, Mom.

They don't just get lower, they get flatter, too. That's right:  There is NO good news here.

Some people do get plastic surgery to negate the horrors of aging breasts.  I'm far too practical with my money to spend thousands of dollars just to make my chest look younger.   Besides, the thought of really young-looking breasts on the body of an old woman is just creepy.  I have, however, considered having a surgeon put zippers in each breast once I hit seventy-five or so.  It would be like having saddle-bags on your chest.  Forget carrying a fanny pack, I'll have booby-bags.

And if the skin on  my upper arms keeps getting looser and hanging down, I could have the surgeon create a whole luggage set.