“Wow! She is so breast-taking!” my friend Mike said as we were taking a water break on the tennis court.
“Come again? Don’t you mean breathtaking?” I asked. No, Mike chose to use his word to describe a rather large breasted young woman who was playing tennis several courts down from us — but obviously in his eyes’ view.
“Really?” I voiced sounding quite irritated and shook my head in disbelief that he would actually make a sexist comment in my presence. “Grow up, Mike. Even my husband wouldn’t make a comment like that in front of me.” He did a quick eyebrow raise and pursed his lips at me.
Mike chuckled and said, “I refuse to answer that and am pleading the Fifth.”
“You’re such a pussy. I don’t believe he would . . .” My words came to a sudden halt as I watched Mike lose interest in our brief conversation and return to gawking at the breast-tacular woman whose breasts were bouncing while she chased a loose tennis ball. I reached for my hand towel to wipe the drool from his mouth.
Breasts. Webster’s definitions for breast(s) include: the human mammary glands; a source of nourishment; the part of the human body regarded as the seat of affection or emotion. Why is our culture so fascinated with breasts? I remember as a youngster my younger brothers sneaking my dad’s National Geographic to take a peek at the half-naked women of an African tribe – so interested in their breasts. Behind a closed bedroom door, I knew they were pointing and giggling, feeling a sense of naughtiness as they continually flipped back and forth between the two pages with the pictures. But it wasn’t just them. My sisters were just as fascinated as my brothers – just in a different way.
Finding the right size bra to accentuate one’s bosom was such a tedious process. I spent many wasted Saturday hours, over the years, helping my sisters – who actually had breasts – select bra sizes, styles and colors. They were thrilled when they found “the one” that made them feel voluptuous and sexy. I had basically no breasts, having become an athlete at a very young age and not officially entering puberty until age fourteen. Watching your sisters fill out – or should I say spill out of – bra after bra in a fitting room was enough to make me scream. Turning and bending, tugging and lifting – it seemed like an endless task! I watched as they stuck their hands into their bra cups and rearrange (fondle, really) their own breasts until they got those flesh bumps fitting perfectly, or not, inside the ever changing bra sizes, styles and colors. My sisters loved, loved their ever changing breast sizes – the bigger, the better. Looking back at that time, I can honestly say that I do NOT miss those days of bra shopping.
Cleavage is absent from our family genes. Our breasts grow from the side – under our armpits. At one point, some years back, my eldest sister said she couldn’t take being cleavage-less and bought herself a brand new pair of saline solution breast implants. What the . . .? My sister was so excited to finally be able to wear a tank top that showed cleavage. Upon my next visit with her, she asked to show me something in her bedroom. We barely walked through the doorway when up came her top and out popped Rosey and Pinky. Staring at me were two of the biggest breasts I had ever seen that close. She wanted to know if the nipples looked even and if I saw any surgery lines around them. What the . . .? I am scarred for life! To this day I have never told her that I really liked her old pair much better.
It is one thing when a sibling asks you to inspect her human flesh and another when perfect strangers ask the same of you. I was in a posh restaurant in Scottsdale having dinner with some very good friends of mine and had to use the restroom. Upon opening the women’s restroom door, two women were staring into the mirror, both lifting their, what appeared to be, cute blouses. They were comparing their enhanced breasts – talking nipple shape, size, sensitivity, and breast heaviness. I did not stare, proceeded to do my business, and headed for one of the bowl-shaped sinks. I ran my hands under the automatic soap dispenser just as the woman closest to me asked me for my opinion. I was to look at each woman’s breasts and decide which one of them had the more naturally looking breasts. What the . . .? I stood there, foamy soap in the palm of my hand and subconsciously asked, “Why my opinion? Why me?” What is it with breasts?
I did once have breasts. Shortly after I had my first child, a beautiful baby boy, my breasts filled with mommy’s milk, and I not only had double C’s but cleavage as well. I sure filled out my swim suit that summer. Date night was pretty amazing too. I wore a sun dress that accentuated my sun kissed body, my slimming waistline . . . and my breasts. Ok, ok, I liked feeling like a sensual woman. Maybe I had been all wrong about the draw people have to women’s breasts. So all of you women reading this, keep ‘em high, keep ‘em healthy, and I wish you all the breast – I mean best.