One person’s headlights, are another person’s painful boobies

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Yesterday, I looked in my bathroom mirror.  This only happens once or twice daily, as you can probably tell by the tortilla chip on my chest.  There I was. Wearing a thin sweatshirt under a thicker sweatshirt, because… duh, it’s winter!  There is a time of the month, each month, when women’s boobies get a bit sore.  If you’re a guy, sorry, but this stuff has been happening at least since Zsa Zsa Gabor was born.  People talk about moons, cycles, tides, currents, whale migration, and other natural events that are connected with a woman’s period.  For some reason, that makes me uncomfortable.   I’d rather think of it as this special human-only curse that DOES make it possible for me to have a baby, but also gives me terribly sore boobs that feel like over-inflated balloons that will pop if they even brush up against a wall – let along get smashed by a Gladiator inspired six-year-old, an inexplicable weight gain of what feels like 30 pounds overnight, a recurrence of my teenage acne, and cramps.

Sure, guys get to pee in bottles and cheer us on when we give birth.  We get cramps.

Men, one day your wife will suggest a vasectomy – when you’ve decided that you would either be an unfit parent, or the ones that you have are  reminding you that you are indeed aging and 72 year old dads of toddlers are just weird… DO IT!   We’ve done our part.  If you actually feel that your wife needs to be the responsible one and change her hormones or have her tubes tied, then you are not  a real man.  Real men get snipped.  Or they’re gay.

That’s coming from a sore-boobed woman, of course.

Back to the subject, I was looking in the mirror, and thought, “OH MY GOD!  I can’t wear this to pick up my daughter!  My nipples are gigantic!”  You see, they were already tender, so when I saw these huge protrusions coming forth from my clothes… I thought that somehow PMS had just mutated me into NIPPELA – Queen of Freakishly Large and Protruding Nips!  I had to hide these giant temperature gauges, in order to leave my house.  But then what?  A nipple reduction?  A steel plated bra?  Pocket warmers?

And then I noticed the thin sweatshirt that I had on underneath my other sweatshirt, had tassels hanging from the hoodie.   They had managed to work their way across my chest until they had perfectly aligned themselves with my breasts.

The giant nipples weren’t mine!  HALLELUJAH!!  Cancel the plastic surgery!

They were just the knots at the end of my hoodie ties.

In my bubble, clothes never end up being worn inside out (yep, at a party, my party), sizing stickers self destruct when you leave the store so you don’t sport them on the back of your thigh as you run errands, and nipples only protrude when needed.  AND, most importantly,  sweatshirt tassels do not hang with their knots at perfect mid-breast level.  No wonder it had been on sale.

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