To boob…or not to boob?
To boob, or not to boob?
That is the question.
For years, OtherMe has been hounding me to get a boob job.
I promised I would make a final decision by the time I turned forty.
Forty is still a few years off, but I’ve been giving the idea greater consideration lately.
Why is that?
I would think the answer is obvious…
When unfunnyme is infamously unfunny, I don’t want people saying,
Okay, so technically I do have boobs. They just happen to be miniaturized, as if they belong on a dollhouse figure instead of a human being. OtherMe is convinced that the first thing people notice about me is that if boobs were removable, mine could be used as coasters.
OtherMe makes a convincing argument, but I still have reservations. No matter how magical a surgeon may be, it just doesn’t seem possible to turn fried eggs into grapefruits. And if it were possible, what would that even look like?
It doesn’t seem right.
To make matters worse, this issue is always in my face. Literally. I’m 5 foot 2, and since many women are taller than me, I’m always forced to look directly at that-which-I-don’t have. Not that I mind looking, and I don’t mean that the way you’re thinking. I only mean that all breastly-challenged women stare.
If you’re a fellow member of the Itty Bitty Committee then you know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t. We can’t help it. When you don’t have them, and you don’t know what it feels like to have them, they’re oddly fascinating. I’m sure that the men reading this would agree.
Speaking of men, I’ve been wondering – if the banana hammock was standard work attire, would ball implants be as popular as breast implants?
It’s a disturbing question I know, but these ponderings keep me up at night.
Would men’s power and manliness be judged by the size of their package?
After all, women are frequently judged by the size of their endowments.
A voluptuous rack equals power. It always enters the room first, and suddenly everyone sits up and pays attention.
Now, before all you well-endowed women start hollering about the agonies of having boobs, let me just say that I’ve heard it all before. You can’t convince me that I’m somehow better off, or that I’m not missing out on some sacred part of being female.
The biggest reason I haven’t followed millions of other women under the knife is because I fear that I won’t quite be ME anymore.
I once conducted a weeklong experiment using chicken cutlets. No, not the real kind. I’m talking about the kind that are made to make women like me look good in something besides flannel.
The results of my experiment were enlightening. There was little change in male behavior towards me since I only went from non-existent to barely-there. It was the female response that was surprising.
For that whole week, women actually started conversations with me without provocation. They smiled. They called me sweetie. They treated me as if I were a kindred spirit. It was wonderful.
And it was exhausting. All that eye contact, all that unnecessary talking – who knew that having breasts got you automatic membership to the jabber club?
If having boobs means I’ll suddenly be required to give up my hermitous life and interact with other beings more than twice a day, I’m not sure I can hack it.
Besides, Mr. Hilarious says he likes me just fine the way I am. I’m pretty sure that’s male speak for there’s-no-way-in-hell-you’re-dragging-me-into-this-because-I’ll-be-in-the-doghouse-no-matter-what-I-say.
And so here I am, left to my ponderings of whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of breastless fortune –
or to make mountains out of mole hills. Or even apples. Apples would be fine. Apples are better than fried eggs.