I have been the recipient of very practical advice since I’ve begun dating, on topics ranging from sexually-transmitted diseases over the age of 60 to how to weed out “catfishers” on Bumble. However, the most humbling advice was from a writing friend, who received it from one of her friends, likely passed down from other well-meaning single women.

“Refrain from “being on top” when you have sex. Your boobs will take on a life of their own.”

I have never really liked my boobs and this is just one more reason. If sex after 60 weren’t awkward enough, with all the aging body parts, I now needed to worry about smothering a man with my breasts.

My breasts have been as big as a 40 DD and as small as a 36C depending on my weight, since I was 13. Flat chested was never part of my life experience and I never got to wear halter tops, tight sweaters or bras that didn’t have a metal underwire. I have never felt that I had a choice in the matter as this tightly bound lifestyle was passed down from my well-meaning nana to my mother to me.

If only the push up bra were meant for boobs like mine, to push them up from how low they have fallen, rather than ironically, to help those that need a little something extra.

Today, my naked boobs hang down comically low below the equator. The first time I got “busy” with a new, tall-waisted guy, my boobs hit his waist line as we made our way from a vertical hug to a horizontal position, serving as a soft cushion between us. His 6’2 frame didn’t exactly line up with my 5’3, but it worked very well when it mattered. Too bad he didn’t.

When I made a joke of it, he said, “No biggie. I’ve always been a leg man anyway.”

That should have been my first hint that this guy was an ass. Unfortunately I tortured myself for another six weeks when I should have listened to my boobs from the beginning.

When I think about my boobs, along with all my other aging but healthy body parts, which have served me well, even though I haven’t always reciprocated and at times have been downright cruel, I am mostly grateful for whatever I have been given.

Is it a big deal when I am lying on my back, if one flops to the right and the other to the left, like throw pillows for my cat, or a small child? Is that really such a bad thing?

Friends say to find someone who loves me for my body, mind and soul. This includes my boobs, whatever they look like, regardless of the angle. Perhaps I should look for a short guy or a boob guy or maybe, just a nice guy who can appreciate what a body over 60 looks like.

Meanwhile I am working on accepting that my boobs will always be the first to enter the room, always in a good bra, followed by my big smile. When a man gets lucky enough to have my boobs near his face, I want to laugh and enjoy myself, and he’d better recognize just how lucky he is.

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