Lift us up where we belong

The spring in my flip phone has died. My perky little white phone used to fairly jump to life at the mere touch of my hand. Now I have to help it open and hold it there for fear of hanging up on my mother. I was demonstrating the phone's lack of enthusiasm for life last night when my husband suggested my Nokia needed some Viagra. After the roar of laughter subsided (he doesn't usually say things like that) it occurred to me that I may be in need of a touch of Viagra in other areas of my life.

My breasts for example. They're just not hanging out where they used to. I was at the chiropractor the other day where the perky little assistant takes you to the room with the floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall mirror and helps you stretch. That's really nice of her and all, but I didn't feel any better after stretching. I just kept looking at the body in the mirror in front of me. The legs weren't bad, for a grandma. The shoulders and arms were covered so as not to distract. What kept drawing my attention were the breasts that were situated somewhere well below the arm pits. Even with arms lifted high in an attempt to unkink my back, the breasts were still not even close to stretching with me.

That night I tried some modifications in the mirror. Lifting and squashing as if I had purchased a new bra that actually fit and wasn't also in need of Viagra. The problem was, to get the breasts where they looked like what they should, caused fat to back up clear to my arm pits. I looked great from the front but I couldn't put my arms down for the rolls under my arms.

Sort of like when you put on those super-elastic undergarments I call, "squooshy pants." Where does all that squished up tissue go exactly? The world may never know...

Like the plaintive wail at the end of Officer and a Gentleman, "Lift us up where we belong!" Perhaps if I hum that constantly my breasts will get the message. Think that could work?

Nah, don't take me seriously.