Finding Forty, Day 43: National Geographic

I don't typically blog twice in once day, but I feel this overpouring of emotions and just, well...SHIT!

So, tonight we invited friends over for dinner.  It went well, but the wine flowed.   No biggie.  I think.

They left, we got geared up to watch our Dexter and somehow, someway, an old wound festered to the surface.

I can't even tell  you how it emerged.   All I know is this:

At one point in our marriage, as I lamented over my saggy, baggy, worn out tits in front of the bathroom mirror (after nursing babies, mind you), A responded with something along the lines of..."Well, they are normal, working breasts....think of National Geographic."

Ummm, excuse me?   Did I just hear what you said?    I'm sorry.   Are you fucking kidding me?

Or wait?  Am I overreacting?

Our fight tonight centered around that.   Something said, innocuously, at least 10 years ago.   Except, I'm sorry, how could I ever really forget something like that that was said about my breasts?

To his defense, he swears he meant it  positively and it came out all wrong.  Really?   I KNOW he didn't mean it to be mean, but his ideas about my breasts are very clearly identified.   So, is it understandable of me to be a bit sensitive when he points out "perfect' breasts in porn or t.v. shows such as  Californication?    Forgive ME for being sensitive and while I'm at it, why not let me just undress in front of you and flop around topless?

Umm, no.  I don't think so.

Some things are just  harder to let go of.   Especially when they HANG from your chest everyday like a couple of gourds on their way to the African watering hole.

Feeling very secure and sexy tonight,
K