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,
“Hey, did you see TMarie on Ellen last night?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s that unfunny writer with no boobs whatsoever.”
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.
Q: What did the pirate wench get for her birthday?
A: An Aarrrrrrggggmentation!
Please tell there are no more where that came from. I can’t take it.
I’m going to side with Mr. Hilarious on this one.
You’re amazingly and ridiculously awesome just the way you are.
Plus, who needs all that kindred spirit crap.
Just the thought wears me out and makes me want to lock myself in my room for a few days.
Now for something completely different…
eggs always make me think of Pink Flamingos and Edith Massey’s obsession with eggs.
Awwwww. That’s so sweet! (Bleh;)
Sweety, you don’t like dancing or shopping,
So, why ever would you want to hang around with us girly girls?!
You do give a bit of a tomboy vibe, Sister….you c’mon over here and I could doll ya up, but then only guys would respond, ya know. There is NO HAPPY MEDIUM.Ever. period.
and here i thought females talked to me because i was a friendly nice person… huh… for the record, it was not OUR side of the family that helped me out in that area 😉
Heee! I don’t know how I could have missed this before! No dear, they talk to you because you are a nice friendly person AND because your endowments exude a gentle and motherly appeal – which is admittedly a very rough translation of some very interesting psychoneuroendocrinology.
June 21, 1921 – February 28, 2011
God rest her soul, and her girls.
I’ll second that emotion…Ta,ta, beautiful lady!
Sometimes less can be more. For example, TMarie is young (fewer years), slender (fewer pounds), attractive (cute or pretty can be less burdensome than beautiful or gorgeous), & more intelligent than most (thus less likely to make bad decisions).
Is the term spelled “brownnose” or “brown nose”?
Twenty years ago TMarie was a very bright student in my senior English class. Instructors aren’t usually referred to as brown-nosing their students when praising their creative success years later.
After reading this post, my high school English teacher (who inspired me to write in the first place) emailed me the following quote. It is simply too good not to share.
“You want to know what your problem is? MTV, Playboy, and Madison fucking Avenue. Yes. Let me explain something to you, ok? Girls with big tits have big asses. Girls with little tits have little asses. That’s the way it goes. God doesn’t fuck around; he’s a fair guy. He gave the fatties big, beautiful tits and the skinnies little tiny niddlers. It’s not my rule. If you don’t like it, call him.” – Rosie O’Donnell as Gina Barrisano in Beautiful Girls (1996)
1. I found wearing a ridiculously expensive VS bra – the kind that already has breasts in it – gives you big ‘uns without the exorbitant price of plastic surgery. Also, you have the freedom to take off the bra and go back to feeling “real.” And unnoticed. (If you like that kind of thing.) I’ve heard way too many people say implants are uncomfortable and a pain in the butt to ever want them. (My step sister is one of those people.) Breast-filled-bras, on the other hand, are like mood accenters. Feel like boobs today? To the booby-bra!
2. I noticed the same thing with regard to larger-looking breasts and women! I got a bra with padding last summer only because of the color. The straps matched a dress. I wore the bra and the dress one night, and of the people who came over for drinks, the ones who paid more attention to my bra-boobs had boobs, themselves. (Big ones. And real. Naturally, I kind of hate them.)
3. Absolutely yes to the banana hammock question.
“Naturally, I kind of hate them.” ‘Aint that the truth! To the booby-bra I go! 😉