What Having Big Boobs Taught Me About You
Someone asked me the other day: What would your life have looked like if you didn’t have enormous boobs?
It’s a really good question, one with feminist implications and practical ones.
Would I have been taken more seriously? Is that necessarily something one ought to aspire to — what does “being taken seriously” look like? What honor does it confer?
Frankly, I wouldn’t know.
Most people who meet me are only serious about not getting caught staring down the ravine of my cleavage.
I make no effort to hide it. Why should I? There’s no pretending the boobs aren’t there. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of them. They are as much a part of my daily existence as shampoo and coffee and — oh, hey, look. Boobs.
I suspect the glazed expression I see on people’s faces comes from frantic odds calculations. Are they real? Are they real? Can I squeeze one? Are they real?
Many consider them vulgar. Some people burst into peals of laughter when I walk by. Anything a large-breasted woman wears screams “Leave a twenty on the dresser“ anyway, and the world is horribly cruel to people who are different.
Some men are nicer to me because of them. I’ve weaseled out of traffic tickets and gotten into nightclubs. I’ve been…
