This is the blog I tried to write the other day when I was deleted. Maybe "It" was trying to tell me something. 

I evoked Nora Ephron (may she rest in peace) who first opened the door to fame with a piece she wrote on breasts that was published in Esquire magazine.  She described the dismay of all flat-chested women in a society of males who prize the appearance of a woman in full lactation. I was ahead of her time, i.e. older than she.  I grew up during WWI when the ideal woman's bustline resembled the nose cone of a B52.  I did chest exercises every night in the bathroom, trying to strengthen the muscles around the breasts to encourage them to stand at attention. I went to a designer to have custom-made brassieres made: lace-up (the back) ones that I was taught to drop my breasts into and then lift them up, as I laced them tight.  I wore empire-style dresses (we wore dresses in those days) to emphasize my silhouette.  

The only times I ever had what  you might call full, hard breasts was when I was nursing my four babies, about six months each. By that time I had learned to make rueful jokes about the advantages of small breasts:   1) I could climb trees, easing my chest over branches that might be awkard for  a more encumbered woman; 2) I could carry books or groceries in my arms without  hindrance; 3) I could snuggle close to a man when dancing, which I loved. (I have always enjoyed concave men for this reason; men, on the other hand, seem to prefer bouncing off the pillowy front of a larger woman); 4) I could see my feet.

This latter advantage occurred to me later in life as my well-endowed consoeurs developed  larger assets than they were able to handle gracefully.  I actually sympathized with them when I was on my cruise.  An abundance of women with an abundance of "soft, protruding organs on the  upper front of their bodies" (the dictionary definition for well-endowed) served as prominent reminders to their husbands as to why they were married to them, years ago.  The budding brides with the attractive pouter-pigeon breasts had turned into galleons in full sail.  But their menfolk, bless them, matched them pound for pound with large, protruding bellies. I don't think they could see their feet, either. 

I'm just saying.