The Power of the Push Up

This is my 100th post.

It just so happens that today I want to write about my boobs. Fitting, isn't it?

I've hated my boobs most of my life. They're big, which in real woman world equals droopy. They're not saggy because they are still full (of hope that they'll fulfill their purpose as feeding machines), but they are big so they can't defy gravity. I finally found a way to deceive gravity thanks to an episode of Tyra Banks' talk show where she had women try different bras and showed how a bra really can change the way your body looks, an overly delightful attendant at Victoria's Secret and an afternoon with Leigh. But still, my boobs are not pretty. Big, sure, but pretty, no. See, I'm prone to stretch marks. Seriously, I got my first ones across my lower back when I was 10, long before I expected anything to stretch, so I actually had to go in my parents' room and ask them what these red marks on my back were. When I was 14 and one boob started to grow (yes, they grew independently), it stretched its way into a B-cup while the other one waited until I was 16 to start blooming. It wasn't much of a problem unless I had to get in a bathing suit, in which case there was no way to hide the obvious rift in growth patterns. I guess it's better than getting a boner at the chalkboard, but it still sucks.

I kept the ninnies under wraps and pretty much tried to pretend they didn't exist through high school, even though they grew to full size. I'd wear two bras to play sports and dodged low cut dresses for dances. Then, one day at an awards ceremony, a friend of mine I called Jon Tuba caught a glimpse down my top. He then said he knew a secret about me, as if I didn't know it already. When he whispered that he knew I had stretch marks, I should have smacked him and said, "I know you're fat." But I didn't have the sense then.

A couple years later I consulted a doctor about getting a breast reduction. I've always been a little stout, mostly because I have a problem with potato chips, so when I went to the doctor I was afraid of having surgery because if I lost weight I knew my boobs would shrink. I've never been a fan of surgery, let alone surgery I can avoid by, you know, exercising, so I just sort of let it go. Plus, having a polaroid taken of your droopy boobs is enough to send any rational woman running from a doctor's office vowing NEVER to return. It's humiliating enough trying on jeans.

I think when I found out my great-grandma had had breast cancer I decided I'd better forgive my boobs for being the way they are. No, they're not perfect, they're not even nice, but they are healthy. And turns out they're comfy to lay on, too. But today I discovered that, as flawed as they are, they are powerful tools.

I've never risked letting them heave with my breaths in public, but I wore a new boatneck sweater to work today and got to conduct an accidental experiment. Turns out the sweater dipped a little more after a couple hours of wearing it than it did when I put it on. Then I noticed men who normally ignored me or were dismissive of me were a lot friendlier. Not flirty or sexual, just jovial, more at ease. They listened when I talked, laughed when I made jokes, explained things to me with patience. It wasn't flustered or horny, it was more like they were having fond flashbacks from a time only their deepest subconscious could remember, all sparked by a touch of bosom.

Of course when I came home it was a different story. Instead of my tatas luring respect out of or giving comfort to Mack, they inspired him to stick a Fudge Brownie Square in my cleavage.

I will never understand the fascination, but at least it's interesting to watch the reaction.