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 bumped up to first class by smitten airline pilots. Mountains of cocaine have been offered to me (no, thanks) along with stern admonishments to dress more modestly (no, thanks) and people’s cocked-eyebrow skepticism when I tell them I’m a writer (fuck you.)
Clothes are a joke. Equally hilarious is me — ever — looking slim, regardless of what my weight might be. There is just too much mass to overcome.
With the boobs comes a certain all-over voluptuousness anyway, something one does battle with from age 12 onward, particularly in the States where every woman, regardless of her genetics, is expected to look like a Q-tip.
Mostly, I refuse to be burqa’d. I don’t dress to hide my boobs or try to create a more “flattering” silhouette. I left flattering about nine exits back. They’re there, right there, getting in the way, knocking over shit.