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I received this from a dear friend today...enjoy!

Hangin' with The Girls...  

Okay, so I was standing in front of the mirror staring at my breasts this morning, checking them out and thinking, “Okay, for 47, they aren’t doing too badly...not hangin’ too low, not wobbling to-and-fro...”

But, as I was standing there, thinking this in my own little brain narrative, I didn’t refer to them as breasts. I thought to myself, “My Girls aren’t hangin’ too low yet...”

My Girls???

When did this become the new hip word for breasts?  And when did I begin using it???

Women are stuck w/breasts and most of us are pretty happy to have them. I know I am. Though my “b” cup babies (babies?)  aren’t large enough to draw stares from complete strangers as I walk down the street, they are curvy enough to cop a sideways glance every once in a while whenever I wear something low-cut on a Friday night, thus revealing just enough skin to tantalize, but not enough to over-reveal.

Such disgression is the key to being a demure getaway girl.  :)

So anyway, I guess I’m sayin’ I’m happy w/‘em. So far, to date, they haven’t caused me any problems (knock wood) and, in fact, they bring me great joy on a regular basis (kudos and thank yous to my hubby...).

But I digress...back to “The Girls.”

Ever since there were women and ever since there were men, there have been nicknames for breasts.  Boobies, boobs, tits, knockers, breastages, ta-tas, headlights, boulders, guns, hooters, jugs, melons, rack, and torpedoes, to name a few.  

So, where in the heck did “Girls” come from?  And why am I referring to my breasts as “my Girls“?

Mostly, I think of my friends as my girls...my homies...my gal pals... And I guess I’m not sayin’ that my breasts aren’t my friends, I feel silly calling them my girls.  

I mentioned this to a gal pal (who shall remain anonymous to protect the guilty) and she noted that her husband calls her breasts “titties.” Titties?  Really?  Isn’t that what eight-year-old boys call them?  We both giggled about that as we came to the conclusion that all men are really eight-year-old boys at heart and, it doesn’t really matter what any of us call them, so long as they are worshipped and revered, right?



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