There are several things that I never imagined I would blog about: Paris Hilton's dressed up dog, Johnny Depp's ever-changing-a-bit-weirder appearance, sexual dysfunction, cream puffs. So if you're shocked by the fact I'm going to write about boobs, me too, sister. (Or brother, as the case may be.)
I just read an article about a woman who "made peace" with her boobs and no longer wears a bra. She is a size A cup and apparently nobody can tell the difference between her wearing a bra and not wearing a bra. Hurrah for A cup braless women! Several years ago I taught a preschooler whose mother, we speculated, had gotten a bit of a "lift". She always went braless and perky, and I mean seriously perky. Nobody has natural breasts like that. You know, the kind that worship the sun all the time. She was clearly proud of them. And hell, if I had invested thousands into my boobs, I'd be proud of them too.
But I haven't. I have what i was born with, a little more than my mom and close to my paternal grandmother's size, who I pictured as having a very perfect curvy figure. Granted, she was really old when I was born. Super old. But I still thought she had the perfect woman's figure--curvy breasts and hips, normal belly and legs. Total opposite of my mom's side, which you could line up with apples and really not be able to pick them out of the bunch.
So I got a larger cup size topped on an apple body. Fun. When I read Miss A-cup's article, one of the things she said is that big breasts have power. I nearly laughed out loud at this, because I think that women with smaller breasts often believe this, and there are definitely men out there who feel this way as well. On occasion, out of boredom, I've anonymously trolled chat rooms on the internet and found that one of the first things a Mr. Anonymous asks is how big your boobs are. What the hell, I'm up for it. Almost always, after disclosing my size (I'm a C) I move up several notches on the "fantasy girl" chart. It's kind of gross. I don't ask men the size of their penis or anything else. I don't really care, mainly because it's been my experience that size is a really immature way to measure satisfaction in the bedroom.
Here's what Miss A-cup and these men miss. I'm no more happy with my boobs than Miss A-cup. I'm 42 years old and believe it or not, the things change over time just like the rest of me. I've never been a fan of plastic surgery, but if I were to go under the knife, it would be to get a "perkier" look. I wish I could go without a bra. I wish when I took my bra off I didn't feel like I was seventy. What I would give to be a size A or B.
Have I had men look at me differently because of my breasts? You bet. I remember once, when I was seventeen and coming out of a convenience store, Bubba and his friend told me I was stacked. (You'll just have to trust me that his name was Bubba. The tobacco he chewed was proof positive.) The men I've dated seem happy with what I've got. I imagine that's the case with most women. I'm aware that there are some men out there who really push their girlfriends or wives to have augmentation. But more than anything else, I think we are guilty ourselves, as women, in finding fault with our bodies.
When you get past the sexual stuff and you get down to it, breasts are a source of food for infants. You don't see a swahili mother standing in front of a mirror shifting her boobs around to make them look sexier. No. You find her with her child swaddled close and nursing. Because really, that's what they're for. The rest is just icing on the cake, as they say.
I have no intention of burning my bras--I care too much about horrifying the rest of the world. But I do agree with Miss A-cup on this: women need to make peace with their bodies. Whether you're apple or pear, whether your boobs are porno big or itty bitty, our bodies are a part of who we are. And we all need to accept the fact that whether they point up or down, fill a hand or or pitcher, our breasts are fine the way they are.