This morning I came to the stark realization: I have boobs. I realize, given my recent post about the 35 years I’ve spent on this plant my epiphany seems a bit delayed, but allow me to explain.
Thanks to my mother’s fabulous contribution to my genetic make-up, I’m a pear shaped woman. Defined by its small top and larger bottom, big chests need not apply.
Most of my life I’ve bemoaned my lack of endowment, until I became a runner. Shopping on clearance racks I can purchase sports bras in the $10 range, while friends with greater “needs” spend upwards of $50 for a good running undergarment.
These days, for me personally, boobs symbolize fat. My chest is the last place I gain weight, the last place I see it. Even my face gets a bit of extra puff before the girls.

So this morning, when I realized my v-neck tee required a camisole for modesty sake, my heart sank. This is the message my mind has been rejecting for a few months now.
It.
Is.
Time.
Past time, really, to push away from the table and stop my free-for-all with food. To consider what I’m putting into my body and why.
I’m not sure I’ll ever crash diet again, or be so totally focused I get to my goal weight of 125 (a number I made up in my head half-a-decade ago). The Whole 30 sounds appealing and scary all at the same time, although highly impractical with the holidays approaching.
All I know is that I’ve got to do something. Good genes/jeans will only help for so long!
Stream

Linking up with Jaime for Stream of Consciousness Weekend.  What’s on your mind? Share it in the comments or let me know if you post your on SOC blog.

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