Nov 3, 2007 10

“Thank you, sir! May I have another!?”™, Day 02: Me and the girls get a new teacher

This is Day 2 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in the comedy classic of my generation, Animal House.

One side effect of carrying around a few extra el-bees is a proportional increase in the chestal area. For the first time since…oh, hell, high school? college? (maybe some of you lurking ex-es could chime in), I have significant boobage.

From the cultural cues that surround us, you’d think this would be a good thing. In most respects, however, it’s a colossal pain in the assets. I’ve always liked small boobs, both from an aesthetic and practical point of view. As have my various partners. (At least, as far as I know. Lurker exes?) Not only did my tiny breasteses look great in and out of clothes, but unlike those of my well-endowed sisters, my own girls required virtually no maintenance from a containment perspective.

No more. I’ve been sensing for a while now that my old “bras” (aka a wardrobe of dago tees) weren’t cutting it anymore. No matter that I wash and dry them on the hottest settings, replace them dutifully each spring, and wear a fresh, tight one each day: I’ve moved from a barely-A to a big man-handful, and no amount of cotton ribbing and denial is enough to keep things under control. And the few actual brassieres I bought for Casual Mom audition drag are a good six years and 1.5 cup sizes past their usefulness.

Because brother, I hate bra shopping almost as much as I hate bra-wearing. From a physical or political perspective, they’re equally annoying. Why the hell should I have to sacrifice time, money and comfort for the sake of propriety, otherwise known as the reigning sex’s inability to keep their eyes off the prizes? If I don’t mind my tits winding up the low-hanging victims of gravity, how they dangle should be my own damned business.

Alas, I live in a world where others will look, either askance or lecherously, and I’m not enough of a booby buddha to not let it get to me. So for all my feminist decrying, the bottom line is that mainly, I’ve just been too cheap and too lazy to do anything about it.

Until yesterday. I had an errand to run in that hideous sprawl just east of Los Angeles known as the Inland Empire, home to the biggest IKEA in all the Southland as well as, it seems, some of our more revolting specimens of masculinity. Despite my very obviously being dressed so as to not solicit attention of any kind, baggy cargos, loose, long-sleeved tee and the ubiquitous dago underneath, many of these charming gents gave me the surreptitious once-over. Whatever. Some people really don’t have enough excitement in their lives.

Then, in the parking lot of an adjacent mall, one of them openly stared straight at my boobs and, before he was out of eyeline, much less earshot, cracked to his equally vile friend, “See? Like those, bouncing all over the place.”

At first, I was incensed. This roly-poly cholo, this marginalized weeble in oversized baby clothes, dares malign me and my few extra ounces of bouncy old lady-flesh? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you, esé. I’m the revolution, baby; I’m an Agent of Change. I’m your mother, your sister, your daughter (well, more like your abuelita, really); how would you feel if some punk piece of trash guero caught one of them in their own vile line of fire?

And just as quickly, the flame of anger burned off and I realized the truth: I was no better, and arguably far worse than they. My lowest-common-denominator thinking, my impulse to objectify them rather connect with any common humanity was as foul as anything I was condemning in them. So what if I wasn’t as out-loud-obnoxious about it? That sprung from common sense and an instinct for survival, not anything noble.

Plus, there was the stark physical truth that they had pointed out, however rudely: my containment system was overtaxed, my meatflaps were flopping all over, and if I wanted to continue to fly under the radar, it was time to walk into Ross Dress for Less and, er, take matters in hand. Which I did, albeit in a grumbling sort of way. (If bra shopping is ever fun, it is not under these circumstances.) The universe, sensing my delicate mood, graciously directed me to six models on the tangled rack, three of which not only fit, but set me back a mere twenty bucks total. I did a patented actor change in the car, and poof! back under the radar I went.

Teachers: wherever you are, I thank you. I thank you for reminding me that I, too, am a pig, that some hills are not worth dying on and that sometimes, the solution is actually crazy simple.

Two boobs from the barrio put two boobs in a bra.

Nice symmetry, that…

xxx
c

Image by wolfheadfilms via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Posted in: The Political Ones

Angie November 3, 2007 at 7:19 pm

You have me busting a gut here C! Those dudes from the barrio made your puppies seek shelter..awwww I’m sure they are lovely boobies!

Although I am well endowed, I HATE bra shopping! When I do go shopping, I find a style that I like and buy it in every color possilbe to avoid future trips. I can not tell a lie, my girls have gotten me out of some sticky situations….come to think of it, they got me into some sticky situations as well!

Keep them coming hermana!

Lisa Gates November 3, 2007 at 8:06 pm

You are at your best, my dear.

Here’s the deal. And I hate to say this. Actually pisses me off to say it, but here goes: The day will come when no heads turn. You will be invisible. At first it will seem like a relief. But soon after that you will realize you’ve been excluded from a vast segment of society. You don’t exist. You’re old. Period. Touching, no just observing your boobs would be akin to necrophilia. Sorry sistah, but something in me wants to be an old girl with old girls that still get invited to the party, even if I end up declining the invitation.

Bizarre and lovely.

adena November 4, 2007 at 9:29 am

God, I haven’t been an A cup since middle school….It would be nice, I think.

As far as bras, I hate them, but they are a necessary evil when you are a D-cup. I cannot, and WOULD not even think of going in public w/o something holding these babies up, because 1) I hate being the center of attention and 2) I think bad things about women w/ massive gazongas hanging down to their knees, while wearing thin tee-shirts…which actually happens quite a lot around here.

Maybe I’m a bad feminist…but really, who wants to see that? Especially when you’re driving. It’s like hypnotism and can cause a multiple car pile up.

Jean Browman--Transforming Stress November 4, 2007 at 9:51 am

:) Thanks for the great post and great series. I’ve always had unfashionably small breasts, and I love them. I hate bras and have scarcely worn one in years.

communicatrix November 4, 2007 at 10:55 am

Angie – I wish Ross worked like that. Once, I was able to find two of the same, perfect bra. I bought them instantly and wore them for 8 years. (Those would be the ones that went into forced retirement Friday. And I *still* haven’t actually thrown them out.)

Lisa – I hear you on invisibility. At least, I think I do. I’ve been preparing myself for it for years. It will be interesting to uncover my feelings when it actually happens, as it doubtless must (unless we’re anticipating a sudden end to the patriarchy, and I’m afeard that the only way that will happen is if everything ends, period.)

This phenomenon actually happens to men, as well, which makes it more of a societally ageist thing, I guess. I mean just randomly–to men walking down the street; men in positions of power probably never encounter it, provided they carefully control the contexts in which they appear.

Ah, well. Tune in in 20 (10? 30?) and I’ll let you know.

adena – Oh, I’m not denying the physical realities. That would be foolish (and occasionally hazardous, as you’ve pointed out.)

As to the judging, I no more want to see thinly veiled gazongas than I do treasure trails, Spandex man-bulge or what’s revealed by dago tees worn sans coverup. For the love of mystery, people, keep some of it to yourself. Really.

Jean – Thank you! I hope that my breasts will be unfashionably small again soon. If the magical, appetite-suppressing powers of the Shangri-La Diet continue to work, it may be a reality rather than a pipe dream.

Jeanne November 4, 2007 at 8:35 pm

OMFSM! Amen, sister. I have to admit, I am jealous that you have been able to make it this far without bras. I’ve needed them since I was a teenager and have hated them every minute of every day. Every so often I think I should just do what I want to do and not wear one, but I can’t bring myself to walk into a grocery store wtih my girls flapping and flopping.

communicatrix November 5, 2007 at 7:31 am

Jeanne – Some combination of tight and loose–preferably the former underneath the latter–seems to be the trick. And not moving much. Sigh….

Adam March 12, 2008 at 4:25 am

As I guy, I wonder if it’s safe to comment… ah, what the heck.

Content matter aside (which I found, erm, titillating), the writing is awesome. Entertaining as heck. I never knew there were so many synonyms for “the girls”.

communicatrix March 12, 2008 at 10:32 am

Adam – Like you’ve ever worried about commenting on anything in your life!

Thanks for the kind words.

And I’m sure there are more euphemisms for the girls on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Viverati. This is just the tip (er) of the iceberg(s).

Rob in Denver April 3, 2008 at 3:12 pm

I’m not sure the invisibility thing is going to be an issue. Ever. I recently read that the reason men like to see ‘em is “the breeding-survival instinct of men made us especially aware of women’s breast sizes.”

I can’t say whether this has any basis in fact, but it sounds reasonable to me. I can’t speak for any other man, but I have to admit that the woman’s age hasn’t mattered one bit to me whatsoever. Boobs is boobs. Old, young (but legal), small, perky, big, floppy… whatever.

I love them all.

Throw in to the mix the entirely plausible bit about the breeding-survival instinct, and I figure you’ll be fine for decades to come as long as there’s men — or women for that matter — like me (I’m certain we outnumber the boobie elitists).

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