Still passing the open windows and falling down the stairs

Break time

Hi friends,
I know that I have been writing very sporadically lately and I appreciate your checking in on me.

I am going to take a little break to get my head again.

I’ll be back as soon as my heart is in it.
Love to all! bandick

Bandick: “A blog where you are allowed to talk about boobies but not show them.”

Boobs. Mostly I view them as an annoyance. They’re in my way when I want to sleep on my stomach. They hurt for several days every month. They require expensive equipment to keep them hoisted and, I SWEAR, they make a little deflating sound when I release them every night. If I had known what to expect from my yabbos in adulthood, I doubt I would have been so fascinated with them in adolescence.

Up until high school I was among the tallest girls in my class. I was all legs and no curves. Not like my friend (we’ll call her Olga, for her protection and to hide the fact that I’m not quite certain I remember her name) who was as tall and blond as they come at the age of twelve. But she had something I didn’t. Tits. Hooters. Pillows. Breasteses. Not twelve-year old under construction boobs. She had honkers. Tune in Tokyo.

I found her yayas hypnotizing. They were huge! And bouncy. Mine barely made a ripple under my shirt. I was equal parts of envy and embarrassment when I was with Olga. But it was never worse than the summer we spent at the city pool. Every day, lying next to her in the sun I felt small and hideous. She was a bronzed beauty and I had 3rd degree burns on my back from my refusal to lie chest up.

By the end of the summer, I’d had enough. I had lived three months as the invisible girl. I was prepared to do whatever it took to make the boys from school, pervy lifeguards, and questionable housewives aware of Olga’s friend. MY NAME IS BANDICK AND I HAVE JIGGLIES TOO.

One morning I woke up and just knew. It was the right time to stuff. The upside to the invisible factor was that perhaps people wouldn’t notice a dramatic increase in my size. I used half a roll of toilet paper and spent twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, forming the most natural looking mounds I possibly could. I even added cotton balls to the center to keep my paper mountains from crumbling under the pressure of my swimming suit.

I was giddy by the time I reached the pool. I climbed off my bike and swaggered up to the gate. Flashing my summer pass, I strutted into the locker room where I took off my shorts and top, exposing my swimming suit, and works of art, to the world. I felt so alive! I wanted to run out to the pool and just stroll past all of the flat chested girls. “I used to know your pain but look at me now. If you only knew how easy it is to look this good. I’ll never be flat again.”

I walked out and spread my towel next to Olga who was already working on her tan and an ice cream sandwich. She squinted one eye up at me. Then she squinted both eyes, hard. She shifted her head, shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted as hard as she could. Then she buried her nose in her book. She said nothing. In retrospect, I’m sure that was for the best but at the time I felt like I was getting the big snub. I didn’t say anything either as I gathered up my towels and jelly shoes and retreated to the other end of the pool, hurt and angry that Olga didn’t congratulate me on my recent achievements.

I was fuming at that time but greatly appreciative for the distance from Olga when the inevitable happened. KIDS WANT TO SWIM. Falsies fade from the forefront of the mind as the clear water beckons. I mindlessly jumped in and felt a wave of relief from the summer sun. Relief which was short-lived as I soon surfaced into the center of a T.P. pool party. It was all there. Toilet paper and cotton balls. My glorious wahwahs floating away from me, around me, and “OH MY GOD!” toward me.

I believe I may have actually broken several Olympic records as I breast(less) stroked my way to the other end of the pool, sprinted to my belongings, and pedaled my bike home, all in 2.5 minutes.

Boobs. Always have been more trouble than they were worth.

Summertime

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Faris and bandick – a 70s summer day at the river

Childhood summer memories are primarily of time spent at my grandparent’s house on the river. Days filled with nature walks or “adventures” as my grandmother always called them in an effort to get me excited at the prospect. Shouts of “Don’t Slam the Screen Door” echoing from within the cool interior of the house in my grandfather’s voice, barely heard over the blare of the baseball game on the radio.

Picking food from the garden. Canoeing. Swimming across the river or down to the sand bar. Crossing the railroad bridge while my heart pounded at the prospect of having to jump into the river if an unexpected train rounded the corner. Going to town for ice cream or to pick up books at the library. Spending days, sometimes weeks, soaking up all of the entertainment that my grandparents had to offer.

On a beautiful day like today, the Friday before a long weekend, I ache for those times. Those memories that feel like home remind me of what I am missing today. And I know that when I get in my car tonight it will take all of my effort to steer my car southwest and not northeast.

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