I have big boobs. And, let’s face it, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.
Let’s not dwell on those times when I was barely a teenager and men wolf-whistled at me in the street and my parents’ male friends couldn’t look me in the eye and I hadn’t yet got my period, let alone had that sex ed video at school.
No, let’s fast forward through the last 20 years of being harassed and objectified in department stores, bars and 7-elevens where I’ve been made to feel as though I’VE GOT BIG TITS ON PURPOSE.
Let’s forget the Marks and Spencer “minimiser bras” I was bought which made my boobs like a weird squishy ledge under my oversized sweatshirts and although I’m rather on the short side, the terrific postural hunch I developed over the years to stop middle-aged men gawk at me when I was 15.
Let’s forget the taunts or hoorays yelled from jack-fucks through car windows or the comments made to me, in person, at the supermarket, bar and newsagent, restaurant, workplace etc AD FUCKING NAUSEM. Let’s ignore the fact I can’t wear anything with a round or high neck because they make my lady-boobs look bigger and even more that I made them big on purpose.
Let’s not remind ourselves (me) that wearing a halterneck or something strapless is a pipedream. That fashion caters solely for those who are under-endowed and that my upper lady undergarments cost the equivalent of a small African country’s annual GDP. If I were fat and this were a natural extension of eating too many fast food lunches, along with a spreading ass, then I’d suck it up. But when even going to the goddamn gym means risking a black eye and doing a head/shoulder stand at yoga means almost suffocating yourself (and I do both these things despite the clear humiliation) it’s pre-ety hard.
Firstly, it doesn’t help that I still can’t buy bras over a C cup without going to those COME SPEND £40 ON A BASIC NECESSITY SMALL-BOOBED WOMEN CAN GET FOR A FRACTION OF THE PRICE WHICH IN NO WAY SUGGESTS YOU’RE ABNORMAL shops with names like Figberry and Berryfig and Dame HugeBoob McMonsterTit.
Having to go to a special shop because you’re a woman with breasts is not OK-how can a high street womens’ clothes store call itself a womens’s store while refusing to cater for proper great tits? Hey, Topshop, women don’t all wear a 32A and leather cropped tops, y’know. SOME women do, but many others have breasts.
However, you’d be forgiven for forgetting this considering we’re as likely to see baps bobbing along the catwalk as you are models working the runway with vaginas over their trousers. Hotpants? Sure. Knickers? Why not! Breasts? No, BREASTS. They’re jiggly, sort of globular things on the front of most ladies.
Not sure about you, but I don’t wake up every morning jiggling with anticipation at how the male population will react to the classic bit of boob I’m about to unveil. Especially not the guy in the shop downstairs who regularly informs my breasts of the 50p card charge with every transaction. It just makes me feel uncomfortable and angry because who needs to be reminded of their sexuality when buying a Freddo at 11am?
Sure, boobs are bouncy fun sex things, but there’s a time and a place. Namely MY time and MY place, because they’re MY baps. Not everyone’s, everywhere, just because it’s a hot day and I’m wearing a fucking tee shirt. It’s not like I can detach them, or turn my tits on and off, so I’ve been using clothes-based trickery and sports vests to prevent your stares and tit-specific catcalls. Why should I feel I have to? Am I screaming across the road about your bulge while you’re jogging? No. Because I have a bit of respect and can bloody control myself around members of the opposite sex.
See here for further details as to why you’re a dickhead.
Mysogyny and being a massive tool aside, when you add the catcalls and comments to the shitty fashion industry and spineless magazine editors working tirelessly to outcast The Boob forever, I suddenly understand why my healthy womanly bodyparts often feel like something to be ashamed of. And confused by.
Maybe I’m mental and nobody else feels like this. Somehow, though, I don’t think I am, although I have no idea how to make friends with my joyboulders until the world stops, subtly and not-so-subtly, conspiring against them. I suppose I could start by throwing out my sports vest and wearing whatever the fuck I like.