So here's the thing about being "peri-menopausal," (or as I like to call it, "PM.") It makes you cranky. (*Note: I was told by my ob-gyn that since I still occasionally get my period, I am not actually in full blown menopause. I ask her what constitutes "full blown" and she tells me that I will know it when I feel it which frankly, makes me even crankier than I am.) Apparently, PM can make you a lot of things (hungry, tired, bored by sex, totally horny) but it can also turn you into a monster. I have seen this in myself and I have seen it in my girlfriends and I have seen it in my neighbor whose husband comes home from work, finds her bawling and screams, "Why can't you just be happy?!" Some of us snap at our children. Many of us rail at our significant others. A few of us yell at our boob-enhanced friends who stood by us when our husbands brought home hookers. That's where I come in.

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There is nothing predictable about being in the middle of your life. I've learned that much, if I've learned anything. (Well, except for flabby upper arms. That, apparently, is pretty standard. And chin hairs made of graphite. Don't forget those.) So when one day your college boyfriend shows up, out of the blue, and says he's never really gotten over you — well, there is no rule book on how to handle that one. You could say, "You're a mixed up son of a bitch," which is what you wanted to say twenty years ago when he scaled the walls of your dorm and hung by your fifteenth story window. You might say, "This Romeo and Juliet act is so... Shakespearean," which is what you tried to spit out when he threw your "diverse backgrounds" in your face (you from Connecticut, him from Westchester — despite an Ivy League pedigree the boy was a moron.) You'd probably say, "That ship has sailed, Popeye," which means more or less nothing unless you understand what it is to be a guy who works out five hours a day and thinks his muscles are God's gift to a just-lost-her-virginity, boy crazy freshman. And yet you say none of these things. Instead, you stutter, "Geez, Danny, you look exactly the same," and stare at him, kind of hungry, like you did when you were twenty and all you could think of was how his ripped-to-the-max swimmers body (Eighties lingo, for you youngsters) would look naked in your dorm room.

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I have to admit, my boobs have always been a big part of my life. Literally. They showed up late — I was fifteen (kind of apropos for me) but once they appeared they almost instantly had a personality all their own. You know how it is. (Well, if you've ever had double D's you do.) The boys gawk at you. The men whistle. Your friends say they're jealous but are secretly relieved they can go breezy and braless. (In the seventies, the cute sundress, no bra look was really in, remember?) Of course these days, Oprah devotes entire hours of television to how important a perfectly fitted brassiere truly is. (I always knew this. But I never had a syndicated television talk show to help me preach that particular gospel.) I am sure, however, there are many well-endowed women who are fully indebted to Oprah for getting this important information across. I myself have been known to run out and purchase the Oprah bra of the moment, and let me tell you — the fit (when done by a proper bra fitter — don't forget that part!) is always spectacular.

I know I have good boobs. I had good boobs when I was a teenager, when I was in college, when I had a breast reduction (double D's, remember) and I've had them since. They've almost never failed me. My boyfriends always liked them and so did I. Size, shape, the whole nine yards. (Jeffrey was perhaps the exception. This might make one wonder further about our relationship. He always said he wished I'd left them bigger, as if a C-cup wasn't big enough. This is of course metaphoric on a number of levels. I never got a good look at any of his prostitutes except for my Super Fan — she had whoppers — but I'm pretty sure he was getting some gazangas when he hired them.)
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