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My New Friends

My New Friends

I have two new friends.

I met them in the shower today. Being the kind, big-hearted girl I am, I introduced myself and offered to show them around the place. I’ve been the new kid on the block before and I know how nerve wracking it can be trying to meet people. What if they have social anxieties?

I thought it best to take it upon myself and make things as easy as possible. After all, we were sharing a shower. Not a lot of room for modesty.

Imagine my surprise when it turns out that my new friends were not new to my little neighborhood at all. I have, in fact, known them for quite some time.

Ends up the strangers who had climbed into the shower with me were not strangers but my nipples. My very own nipples.

They’ve had work done.

And it’s not great.

I think maybe they went to one of those discount places, like those cheap Lasik clinics where they correct your vision but also steal your kidney.

“Oh,” I said, biting my lip with embracement. “I didn’t recognize you. You look different. Have you done something with your … areolas?”

My nipples didn’t say anything, just kinda stared at me without blinking.

We didn’t talk for the rest of the night.

And now I feel this weird separation, a cool silence coming from my chest. A smoldering anger inside my bra.

I suppose my nipples have every right to be angry. They didn’t ask for this “adjustment,” didn’t have a say in whether or not having a baby would be the best choice for them at this junction. To be honest, I’m pretty sure they’re still pretty angry about the whole breast-feeding deal. They have been charged with jumping from being professional fun bags to gourmet chefs. Its’ a big career change, something I have gone out of my way to completely acknowledge, but they don’t seem to think I’ve done enough.

Now, I’m afraid, I’ve gone ahead and insulted them again by not recognizing them during my nightly soap-up.

Great.

I wonder what kind of revenge a nipple might take. Will they invert in protest? Randomly jump out of my bra at inopportune times? Make teeny tiny protest signs that read, “Breast-feeding Unfair; Ask a Nipple!”?

The shower was an honest mistake. You have to understand, I’m not talking about a small shift in size or color. This is like … a quadrupling of size and a drastic change in pigment. It reminds me of those paint strips you see at Lowes, where the color goes from some nice, calm pastel shade, all the way down to some super crazy intense cousin of the original hue.

I would say I’m one step above the crazy cousin.

I’m at like, eccentric aunt.

That’s how far removed I am from my original shade and size.

I’m an embarrassing relative of how I used to be.

At least I can still see my nipples, there’s some small comfort in that. Sure, they might be morphing into root beer barrels stuck on top of fairly large tea saucers, but I can still see them. I am aware and up to date on the changes.

… A certain other part has remained out of my direct line of sight for the last trimester.

I can just see it now. In a month’s time I’ll be sitting in a bar, offer to buy a stranger a drink, and bam!

I’ll have just purchased a rum and coke for my own vagina.

This is not something I am prepared for.

I think I’m going to go and try to rig up a series of hand mirrors.

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