Embracing the Boobage

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I think I offended someone this week by using creative metaphors to describe my breasts.  You know, funbags, sweater puppies, peaches, milk shakes, maraccas, ta tas…

Well, you get the idea.  The first time this happened, I was in college and talking to my (male) roomate.  I called them boobies.  He was GREATLY offended.  “Don’t call them that,” he said, “they are called breasts.”  I just looked at him and said that they were mine and I could call them whatever the hell I wanted.  It was amazing that I was able to have a conversation with him at all, considering his head was up his ass the whole time.

(See, I coulda been crude and made a drawing here but I went for an art installation pic instead. Cuz I'm classy and all)

It might be important to point out that he was really trying hard to hit on me, which is how breasts somehow came up, so it’s not like he was an angel.  I really do think he believed all girls went to bed after having naked pillow fights with whomever was around.  Including him.  I crushed his little man dreams when I told him Animal House was fiction, not a documentary.  Twerp.

Recently, it was during an e-chat with a (vaguely) girl friend about another blog that referenced moo missiles.  Instead of the laugh I was expecting, I got a sigh and purse of the lips.  Really?  When did we time warp back to 1950?  Now, I know there’s a time and place for all language.  But if it’s among friends in casual conversation, why on earth do I need to call them breasts, or mammary glands?  I don’t call a man’s penis his penis all the time.  Depending on whether I’m trying to belittle or bemuse, I  might call it a wee-wee or a throbbing rod of manhood.  (I got that from my grandma’s hidden romance novels).

Granted, I wouldn’t be flinging nicknames around at a country club in the Hamptons, but if any of you read my post about public conversations, you’d know that the likelyhood I would willing to go to a party at a country club where I am required to rustle up conversation with strangers is fairly slim.  Unless Richard Gere was a bazillionare who was hiring me to hang out with him at parties.

(But not in that hat no matter how much you paid me)

Okay, Pretty Woman was on last night, or I wouldn’t have gone there.  Anyways.  Maybe being in my mid thirties has changed my sense of decorum to some degree…I mean, I am the Clerks and Chasing Amy generation.  And yes, I really do talk that way with my friends.  (Of course, I’m not so sure I agree that the plumbers on the Deathstar deserved to die.  I mean, it might be a political choice to take contractor work there, but how many Roto-rooters get to turn down a job they’ve been hired out for?  Randall didn’t think of that.)

I got sidetracked.  Ah, yes.  Boobies.

See, all my best friends growing up were guys.  AND, I had two sisters who I was competing with during our teen years.  Yes, we actually competed for who had the biggest boobs.  Bra size matters to a 14 year old.  These days I wish things had gone a little differently in that race, because larger boobs can really take the fun out of exercise.  Either I’m strapped down to the point that I can’t breath or I get slapped in the chin.  Ridiculous.

Anyways, I have to deal with my knockers every day.  They are there.  They sway when I walk, they stretch my shirts, they hide my long necklaces.  They are not going away.  I’ve had them for quite a while now. I can’t ignore them–they are in my line of vision.  At some point you are either vaguely ashamed of them, or you make peace and embrace the boobage.  Oh sure, I could be a prim and proper girl and never talk about my hush puppies in anything but clinical terms, but that takes the fun out of it.  If I have to strap myself down in boulder holders every day, shouldn’t I have the right name my bazookas however I choose if the conversation comes up?  I’m talking to my peeps, not taking tea with the queen.

Now, I do know about sexual harrasment, and to be clear I don’t make these kind of jokes at work.  Even though I’m a woman, I still think it’s a bad idea to allow that stuff to circulate around the water cooler…if it’s not okay for a guy to say it, I don’t think it should be okay for me to say it at work, so I keep a stiff upper lip and shuffle through my days at work with restraint.  But at home?

Behold the power of headlights!

Okay.  I know this entire blog post has been a juvenile response to a passive aggressive critique of my flippant terminology.  I’m sure it’s not stately or becoming.  Too bad.  In the end, I bet you learned something today.  Even if it is that Jigglypuffs are not a cereal brand and that Prisoners of Bra-zkaban is a horrible Harry Potter pun.

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