Your knockers are lovely, but they’ve got to go
Several posts back, I made my dear friend Tamara (a.k.a. The Elf) snork her morning coffee out her nose, by relating another friend’s joke about breast size. To recap, this dear friend once said, apropos of gravity and its effect on the aging female form, “I used to be a 38C, and now I’m a 42 Long” – which in turn made ME spit coffee out my nose. (I’ve probably just made Tamara choke again. Sorry, sorry…send me the dry cleaning bill…)
It all put me in mind of an incident about 15 years ago when my family doctor put me on the Pill. (I refer here not to the evil mulleted Stick Insect I see now, who calls me a fat cow, but to the nice, human doctor that he replaced.)
Anyway, there are approximately a bazillion different doses and permutations and combinations of birth control pills, and the one that best suits a given female is based partly on individual body chemistry, and mostly on the luck of the draw. With this precise scientific formula in mind, my doctor reached into her Cupboard O’ Drug Samples, hauled out a handful of pretty little boxes and sent me home with a month’s worth of nice little hormone bombs.
They seemed to work well enough, as there are no little Smiters to speak of, but they had the most astonishing side effects, and by “side effects” I mean that my breasts ballooned virtually overnight from their usual unremarkable “normal” to an eye-popping “holy CRAP.”
Within about 10 days I had grown out of every bra, blouse and t-shirt that I owned. My usual leisurely, anonymous walk from the subway to my office was now an obstacle course, as otherwise-gentlemanly gents now veered headfirst into my path, their eyes goggling and tongues lolling helplessly at my gargantuan frontage.
Seriously, I could have rested a drinks tray on those things.
A couple of weeks after that I went to visit my godmother. It was autumn and rather chilly, so my person, and the monstrously augmented Girls, were safely concealed in voluminous cover-ups like barn jackets, sweaters and fleecies. But in the morning, I stumbled downstairs in my t-shirt and pajama bottoms to get some coffee and my poor godmother, who normally would not say “excrement” if her mouth were full of it, said (and I quote), “Good morning! I hope you slept all right. Would you like some – HOLY SHIT.”
I staggered uneasily through the next couple of weeks, heaving my Continental Shelf in front of me like a tray of expanding watermelons, and finally returned to dear Dr Logan for my follow-up, to see how things were going.
It didn’t take her long to reach her conclusion. I stepped into her exam room and removed my sweater. She looked at me expressionlessly, eyeballed the Girls for a split second, and said, deadpan, “Well, those are lovely, but they’ve got to go.”
And go they did, as quickly as they had appeared, thanks to an adjusted prescription; you could almost hear the air hissing out of them, like a pair of punctured tires.
Frankly, I was glad to see the last of them – I’m not the sort of person who enjoys being the centre of attention, and even if I were, I’d rather be getting stared at for telling a good (or lousy) joke, or being good at my job, not because I have a pair of outsized summer fruits preceding me into a room.
And more to the point, when you have a rack like I briefly had, I was horrified to discover that people — even people who knew me reasonably well — suddenly assumed my IQ had been cut in half and my sex drive had quadrupled. Essentially, all traces of the person I had been for most of my life dwindled into insignificance in the shadow of my bodacious knockers.
Honestly, I don’t know how Amply Gifted women do it; not just enduring the stares & drooling & foul assumptions, but just toting the damn things around. I’ve known a few women who have had their Chestral Real Estate reduced simply because their bra straps were cutting furrows the size of the Mariana Trench into their shoulders.
And why anyone would willingly purchase a pair of giant artificial bazongas is completely beyond me.
Anyway, my point (and I do have one) is that Breast Ownership is not for the faint of heart, or the weak of spine. There are risks and responsibilities that come with possessing a Rack, and one toys with Mother Nature at one’s peril.
(In much the same way, Penis Ownership is also not for the faint of heart, I understand, although I have idly wished for one when faced with the prospect of peeing in the woods, for instance. But there is the tricky matter of hydraulics, and of course the very vulnerability of the thing — not just to kicks & lacrosse sticks, but to the ordinary wear & tear of daily life; a dear friend of mine caught himself in the zipper of his snowsuit at a very young age, and still bears the scars. [Apologies to all you gents out there who are now clutching yourselves and tearfully gritting your teeth.] But that is a topic for another day.)
At any rate, what started this whole train of thought was an article last week stating that researchers are now seeing breast development in girls as young as seven. The causes are unclear (childhood obesity and the chemicals in our diets are the likeliest culprits) but the overriding concern is that kids in Grade Two are simply not equipped at all to deal with the “social and emotional consequences” that come with early development.
On this I agree absolutely; I was a bit of a late bloomer myself (I was the only kid wearing underwear with duckies on it in Grade 9, for God’s sake) but when I was in elementary school, there were a few girls who sprouted a bit earlier than the other kids, and their lives were a living hell.
One girl in particular had a rotten time of it. Her name was Shirley and her reward for hitting puberty early was being called “Slut” and “Whore” which are horrible things to call someone, and even more horrible when that “someone” is just ten years old.
Kids are mean, of course, but they hardly need any more ammo in the form of superdeveloped classmates who are still learning to tie their shoes. Same goes for the creepy grownups who tiptoe after little girls with Polaroid cameras or (worse, maybe) enter them in those nasty little pageants. (Can you say JonBenet? I knew you could.)
For everyone’s sake, here’s hoping Science in general and Health Canada in particular are doing their level best to stuff this particular genie back in its BPA-laden bottle (although I don’t have much faith in either, truth be told). Because kids should be allowed to be kids.
And because, God knows, 42 Long will come soon enough for all of us.