(As seen in DarwinLife Magazine July issue)
I fancy myself a reasonably smart girl. I did well at uni, read online newspapers, can make a witty quip when necessary, and know how to pronounce foie gras correctly. But none of this means anything without a decent pair of tits. Everyone, (especially Beyonce) knows that if you are female and want to rule the world you must first; always wear only your underpants and second; you must possess ample cleavage.
Most women have a strange relationship with their boobs, monitoring them and their behavior closely. I remember watching with confusion and amazement as my breasts grew in that weird pointy way at thirteen. My lumps were a novelty and I had no idea of their potential or ability.
By the time I was 21, I discovered that shaking my milk makers brought all the boys to the yard. I learnt that my lady lumps were a secret source of power over men, and that having the right kind of boobs could result in social and economic gain.
Then I breastfed two babies. They stopped being lady lumps and became two gargantuan bazoinkas with nips of steel. But then… they left. No goodbye. Not even that fake, “hey well I guess we’ll be seeing each other around.” They just buggered off leaving two sad little over-fried eggs. Alas, my fun bags are no longer fun.
The problem is – I have ACTUAL non-silicony breasts. I couldn’t go to ‘Bass in the Grass’ because I don’t have perky little breasts that look good in a boob tube. Instead, I have breasts that happen if National Geographic was like, a totally hot magazine.
And I’m terrified that before long they’ll be flopping around like cocker-spaniel ears. Or wake up one morning with breast knees. So when my husband said if I wanted to get a boob job, he’s ok with that, only if I want, because I’ve been lamenting my lack of lady lumps? Hmmm, the conundrum. Only if I want!
I don’t know… but MANY others do! No longer reserved for strippers and bikini models; breast enhancement is now mainstream, and not only for those with tea-bag titties. Young women with cute little apple pie breasts who’ve barely reached puberty are also getting the ‘job.’
I know. I see them. Because like any expensive purchase you make, you want to show them off. “Look what I bought,” you tell the world sticking your nipples to the wind. “Check out these puppies,” you mention in passing as they high-five your collarbone. Or my favourite: “Oooh, shots! Look dad, no hands!”
Most women consider breast implants the way men consider steroids. Some demonise them out-right. The rest are hesitant to judge because in the back of their mind they think maybe… someday, they’ll do it too! You know, not to be huge. Just to feel better.
Sure, I could get a new set. But sometime around 2038 when we’re at an age where it’s no longer realistic to have such a pert and colossal bosom, maybe those who DID get it done will eye my breasts with wonder and remark at the way they fall. So casually, so gracefully…
…to my midriff.