Dear Fake Boobs,

There you perch, two gargantuan, pointy soup bowls, ogling me from across the party. Damn. You guys are amazing, sitting up like that, all by yourselves in that little tank top, with no bra on or anything!

Before I knew the truth about you two, I assumed my husband’s ex had maxed out all his credit cards underwriting her frequent bouts of unemployment, or on less dramatic fare, like her bar tabs, vintage lunchbox collection, and those fun trips she used to take you on—including that time y’all went to Athens and got felt up, a lot, by the indie kid she dumped my husband for and married only a few months later. (More proof of your magical powers, I guess!) Imagine my surprise when I learned that among the Visa wreckage we’ll be paying off until we die are you guys: her fabulous, phony porno boobs!

Back before my husband’s good friend slipped up and told me you guys were a present, back when I thought you were actual glands and all—not just gel and saltwater in a couple of Ziploc baggies—you used to make me cry. I’d think: Goddamn, you guys are mean! You’re middle-aged, for Christ’s sake; start sagging like it! Then I’d feel a tinge of guilt and tell myself: Hey, it’s OK. Luck of the draw. Sure, she has you two in all your perky glory, but she also has that really greasy hair she can’t seem to do anything with but put up in a slimy ponytail.

You two even had my girlfriends going for a while. One asked, “How do they do it? It’s like she’s never been pregnant, like she’s never nursed even one baby, much less two!” Haw, haw! Good one! You guys don’t even pay lip service (pardon the pun!) to any of that “breasts serve a functional purpose” hooey that seems to be all the rage among pissy La Leche Leaguers and cultures of the Third World.

Maybe it’s just sour grapes on my part, but I can only wait with bated breath for the day I see you both again—sometime around 2028 or so—when we’re all at an age where it’s no longer realistic or, more importantly, appropriate to have such a pert and colossal bosom. Maybe on that day it will be the two of you who will eye my breasts with wonder and remark on the way they fall—so casually, so gracefully—to my midriff. Until then, I wish you much happiness and good fortune in the future. May you always be well fondled by the half-dozen or so men in this town who have not yet had the pleasure.

With warmest regards,

Milla Wicks
Jackson, Mississippi