Disclaimer: Contains a lot of silly wordplay concerning breasts while I attempt to make light of a subject that has been truly anguishing. To read a serious and profoundly potent post on the same subject, please go to this amazing writer’s blog right here.
“Well, HELLO DOLLY!” (You know the tune?)
When I was 15, a boy inquired about going to the junior prom, never once taking his eyes off my enormous bosoms. I told him, “Oh yes, they’d be delighted to go.” His baby blues widened as I continued, “They’ll be ready by 7 pm, but you need to return them safely back home and attached firmly to my torso by midnight.” His eyes grew bigger than any saucers my breasts could ever fit into. “Or else….” I hesitated for dramatic effect, “they’ll turn into pumpkins!” I couldn’t resist. His eyes exploded.
After that incident, boys continued to never look into my eyes while speaking to me, (but rather preferred to fix their stare a good 10 inches below) which prompted me to think about gluing those craft store Googly Eyes onto my blouse in strategic spots.
Hey listen . . . . . . .
“Where’s your wheelbarrow?”
“Your cup runneth over!”
“Are melons in season?”
“Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder!”
There isn’t a boob joke or cat-call I haven’t heard before. In the past few months, this humor blog has helped me lighten up with heavier issues than my breasts, so I’m going to give it a shot today – – being that I’ve had a
breasted vested interest in the subject matter.
When you’re just 13 years-old and already making Dolly Parton look inadequate, you quickly learn that intelligent people who say, “Your bra size doesn’t matter, only brain size matters,” are just plain . . . Stupid. First of all, if you’re big busted, you WILL be perceived as a bimbo, regardless of your IQ. Don’t believe me? Try these 10 easy steps:
1. Fill two plastic bags with granulated sugar, each weighing 5.5 lbs and place them in your shirt (Yes, that was EACH. Check it out here .)
2. Go out tonight.
3. Oh, but first go bra shopping.
4. Bypass all the sweet, delicate, lacy little bralettes you see in the front of the store.
5. March up to a saleswoman and tell her you would like to (use the term “like to” loosely) try on a steel reinforced Chest of Armour in a size 38 Double . . . and then whisper the cup size.
6. Watch other women in the store turn to “envy” you. Slap forehead and say, “Darn! I just knew I shoulda ordered them in a smaller size when I was in that uterus.”
7. Then try explaining to these other women about a) backaches b) shoulder pain c) not being able to sleep comfortably d) or exercise, e) combating extreme male crudeness f) your fear that someone will set a vase of flowers on your boobs, mistaking them for a fireplace mantle shelf. And g) well, “G” is your cup size.
8. Be prepared for these other women to shake their heads at your complete ungratefulness and proceed to bemoan the horrors of being a size A cup.
9. Nod politely and agree that yes, the grass is always greener. Or the bras are always better, on the other chest.
10. Go home and cry – – while fantasizing about carving pumpkins.
During high school, while girls on the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (remember that?) were saving up to buy a new set of wheels or a graduation trip to Hawaii, (in an “itty bitty, teeny weeny, yellow polka dot” you know what) I was squirreling away my allowance for breast reduction surgery. But it wasn’t looking good. My very protective father had already declared that, “No doctor was taking a scalpel to his small, little girl.” Bless his heart with his choice of adjectives.
So I did what any typical female would do when something was “too large” on her body. I dieted to reduce their size. And I did lose weight, even though I didn’t really need to. You can get quite disciplined when your only option of a swimsuit for the beach looks like something your grandmother would have worn. Circa 1929.
You can see just how well Weight Watchers worked out for me (with addressing this issue) by referring to Figure 38 H to the left (yes, that’s “H” now!) Only add more of a frowny face to this diagram.
Now it was time to try the opposite tact. This time I ate a lot more food to attempt to camouflage them in excess weight. But they only inflated. While I was toying with the idea of trying a sharp pinprick, (would I zoom crazily airborne around the house like a balloon? ) I happened to meet a nice boy. By this time I was exhausted from trying to change mother nature, (but you know what they always say, “No breast for the weary”) and decided acceptance was my only answer.
Luckily, this boy was soft-spoken and at age 17, helped me cultivate somewhat of a sense of humor about them. He called me his “Little Treasure Chest.” Compared to the names I heard walking by a construction site, this was definitely a breast of fresh air! One afternoon he leaned back comfortably against me, his head cradled between – – well you know – – singing along to that hit Police song, “Every breast you take….every move you make,” when suddenly he announced that if he installed a couple of stereo speakers in them, he’d have himself a boob tube with Dolby Surround Sound headphones. That was it.
“You know what?” I asked. He waited with baited
breast breath. “Give it a breast rest already! You and I are done.” What a jerk, thinking he could just lie back and breast on his laurels. Ha – – he wasn’t the only one with good breast puns.
Besides, I couldn’t have gone with him to my Senior Prom even if I wanted to. Why? Because Spaghetti Strap dresses were all the department stores sold. Could I wear that style ?? Fat chance! Not even with a dozen spaghetti strands. (as pictured at left!)
Fast forward to age 18 and it was time to implement Plan B (and B was the exact letter I was going for with reduction surgery, by the way!) so I scheduled the operation. When the fateful morning arrived, I went to the hospital with just a bit of trepidation. In the operating room, the young, handsome, curly haired Doctor came in and spoke to me, holding my hand while gazing deeply into my eyes, (a preview of what would be when I was finally smaller?) as he explained the exact procedure. I suppose he wanted to keep me abreast of everything that would occur.
He then exited out the door and I was alone with my itty bitty thoughts. When the door opened next, a man walked in wearing surgical scrubs. I grew suspicious as he opened the front of my hospital gown and took out a black Sharpie pen.
Me: Wait a sec. Who are YOU?
Surgeon: (drawing circles on my skin) I’m the same guy who was here before. Only with a cap and mask. Why, who do you think I am?
Me: Oh I don’t know. I thought maybe they were selling tickets out there for strange men to come inside and doodle on my breasts with magic markers.
Surgeon: Very funny. Have you considered Nursing in the future?
Me: Well, I get a little squeamish around blood. Why? Do you need an assistant?”
Surgeon: Breastfeeding. (pause) And you may not be able to. (brightly) So how do you feel about C’s?
Me: I pride myself on being a straight A student, but I’ll settle for a couple of B’s.
Surgeon: A or B? But you’d be completely flat!?
Me: That’s the idea. I wanna give people a craving for blueberry Pancakes.
When I woke up on that recovery table, (even though I was in excruciating pain) – – the first thing I did was reach down to feel the results. Straight through the bandages. And in that moment, I knew . . . I would finally be able to say to my body, “Breast in Peace.” Forever.
Footnote: Somehow I always thought as I approached menopause, the reverse of puberty would occur. I would lose my cycles and of course my breasts would un-grow. Okay! Now, would someone PLEASE hand over the “Change Of Life Manual??” Because my body didn’t seem to get that memo. “They’re Baaaaaaaaack!” And no, that’s not a preview for the movie, Poltergeist.
Leave me a comment – – maybe you have some big boob remark that I’ve never heard before. But you can
breast rest assured, I probably have!