The two lumps on a woman’s body made of almost 90% fat (a totally scientific percentage pulled out of thin air), has resulted in pleasure, cries of angst, and the constant obsession by both males and females. Society’s constant fixation on nothing more than two knobs of fat has resulted in an industry purely targeted at the augmentation of said lumps of lard, numerous discussions on the struggles of large and slightly less large breasts, and the appeal or lack thereof of mosquito bites.
As a former competitive swimmer, my body never really got the memo that boobs were something that a female was supposed to have. So began the joyous years as President of the “Itty Bitty Titty Committee”. Throughout these years, I watched every 15 and 16 year old girl enjoy the sudden luxuries that came with the purchase of the latest push up bra, and the magic that Victoria’s little secret can do. As I sat on the sidelines, girls were asked to “cover up” as their outfit did not “comply to school uniform code”. With my training bra, I watching as one by one, every other girl suddenly was talking about things like blowies. These sounded like a new fabulous candy and at 14, I wasn’t really sure what they were talking about.
I would constantly hear boys talk about “Ashley’s jugs” and “the duds on Lisa”, meanwhile the only curve on my body was my nose which at this point was growing faster and more ferociously than any “melon” on my body. Man, did I want to get rid of my sports bra and trade it in for one of those fancy lace things that had some sort of wire at the bottom.
When I finally quit swimming, a wonderful thing finally happened. At age 17, my body realized that I was, in fact, a girl. To my delight, I was kicked out of the “Itty Bitty Titty Committee” and I started to understand the difference between a “Bombshell 2 Cup Push Up” and “The Perfect T-Shirt Bra”. It was then that I realized that these two lumps that were growing on my chest were beginning to cost me a whole lot of money. Gone were the days I could comfortably sleep on my stomach, cheers to the day where I could go for a run with just one sports bra, and peace out to the days where my armpit wasn’t constantly being poked by a wire.
The attention I once envied became annoying and outright disgusting; “my eyes are up here, dude,” became a phrase used more often than a teacher trying to pull attention away from an iPhone screen. Besides the sudden rise in attention “my lovely lady lumps” were getting, I found that button down shirts were quickly to become a thing of the past, baggy shirts now made me look like a contestant on The Biggest Loser, and cross body bags quickly became an enemy.
Now, in my early 20s, I have yet to go a week without a boobie conversation with my girlfriends. The conversation always goes the same way:
Girl 1: Complains about small boobs
Girl 2: “No gurllll, you don’t even understand… big boobs suck for reasons A, B, and C.”
Girl 3: Complains some more about small boobs
Girl 2: “Puhhhlease, at least you can do X, Y and Z”
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetra. Somehow after years of the same bloody conversation the conclusions never change. Nevertheless, I have been able to discover a couple of things.
1. I have yet to find a woman who does not have at least one complaint about her boobs. However, almost every woman is able to also find at least one benefit for the size or lack of size of said cleavage.
2. There are magical ways that you can make your boobs look bigger and even more magical ways that make your knockers look smaller.
Having been in the privilege of experiencing a wide range of the alphabet, from A, B, C, D, and so on, I can guarantee you with certainty that girls are far more obsessed with the size of their boobs than men are. It is women who have received the mere 307,180 breast augmentations in the United States alone last year, not men. I come from a city of relatively small-breasted woman, but I was born in county where curves are the norm. In the end, it’s women not men who sit there and obsess over which of the two Kates is more desirable; the Moss or the Upton. Reality is both are, and I am willing to bet you pretty much anything that men have wanked to both and really don’t give a bloody damn.