The Pneumatic Side of Life
posted: Jul 29, 05:57 PM
The Princess is on fire! She’s inspired me to write something funny or, as she says, happy. She’s sitting beside me, hovering, doubting this can happen. Talk about creating under stress!
She’s going to be soooo grossed out by this post. I will laugh!
So, we all want what we don’t have…you know the drill, if we’ve got straight hair, we want curly hair; if we’re curvy we want to look less curvy (sometimes); the list is extensive and as unique as we are, but there’s one attribute all women have issues with, their breasts.
The girls are either: too small, too big, not pert enough (they’re holding the damn pencil!), not perky enough, there is a difference between pert and perky. They are, God forbid! different sizes or even out of alignment. Oops, now they sound like car tires.
The point is, put a group of women together and eventually the conversation turns to breasts. It’s probably little wonder given the fixation men have on breasts. We’re bound to give some thought to them ourselves.
When I was a teenager I had no problem with being a late bloomer…I was a “tomboy” and was not at all enamored of the whole becoming a woman business. My first bra did not do anything to improve this perspective. I was happy being a not quite A cup, moving on to an actual A was o.k., as by Grade 9 I had figured out there was some status associated with looking like a girl.
By the time I hit university I had it going on and I knew it! I was quite happy with my B cup (do you notice the alphabetical progression?). Small enough to be perky and pert. Big enough to be present. I now appreciated the girls.
I remember hanging out in The Grawood (Dalhousie’s bar) before going downtown one night and this other girl, who also had it going on, was talking about the breast implants she was scheduled to have done. I couldn’t believe anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to pain in the pursuit of body happiness/satisfaction. I, of course, more or less said this. In my own defense I had been drinking, just a bit. She had the emotional melt down, she’d been drinking, just a bit, herself. Her response was along the lines of I had no idea what her life was like with “no” breasts and girls like me should get over themselves. Ouch!
Moving quickly through my twenties and thirties when I moved on to a C. Well, this was o.k., but not totally o.k. with me. I lived in the gym. Weight trained, ran, step, whatever, I was a fitness fiend/addict. Breasts and sports (with the exception of perhaps beach volleyball) are not totally compatible, at least not to my way of thinking. I learned to accept them.
Then came pregnancy. The Princess gave me “D“s! Now, there are women, my friend in university and several since, who have chosen to have breast implants to become a D. I have never, ever understood this… first of all implants are not good for you physically and, second of all, in one of my early jobs my boss never looked me in the face. He always talked to the south. He obviously was devoted to breasts! At the time I didn’t realize this was sexual harassment, I just knew he pissed me off!
I remember lying on Bavaro Beach in the Dominican with a friend of mine. Mary, who was an o.r. nurse, worked with a cosmetic surgeon. Bavaro is a topless beach, which is often almost bottomless too! Trust me when I say there is a stage in life when women should give serious consideration to not going topless, or wearing a thong to the beach. Gravity is not kind to the body. Women, in particular, tend to be very aware of the changes gravity brings.
Anyway, back to the beach. I’d observe to my friend “that girl’s breasts are nice, why don’t mine look like that?” and she’d reply “her’s are fake.” I’d point out another set of good looking breasts and once more she’d assert they too were fake. Thanks to Mary and Bavaro I received an education in breasts. The ones the media usually wants us to embrace (oops, sorry) as real are actually fake. The ones we think aren’t quite “good enough” ‘cause they don’t look like the ones on websites and magazines “are real”.
My question is this “Who wants to be an eighty year old woman with pneumatic breasts?” Of course, the girls could do double duty as a chin prop at nap time.