This post is about boobs. So for those of you who are faint of heart or still harbor romantic ideas about breasts--stop reading now. I don't want to ruin it for you.For the rest of us...ah gravity. It does so many wonderful things. But where boobs are concerned, it is the enemy. And boy has it wreaked havoc on mine. As I quickly approach forty they were already quickly descending and now after breastfeeding it is more like a plummeting towards my feet. I feel like I need to wear a bra even to sleep. I was always someone who wanted smaller boobs. I always found them to be in the way. Okay, yes, during sex they're nice, but the other 98% of our lives they're just obtrusive. And any romantic illusions I may have harbored were all quickly dispelled after breastfeeding. I had a very hard time breastfeeding. I thought it would be like in the movies. I would put the baby to my breast and magically everything would just happen. It was so NOT like that. It took weeks for Ben and I to figure it out. And after using my mammory glands for what they were intended, they are not only less mysterious, but just plain old sad looking. Every once in awhile I will se a 50-ish looking woman whose breasts are hanging down at her ankles. I look at her and say the following silent prayer "Please God, let her not have worn a bra her entire life."