Monday, February 23, 2009

How Nice Life Would Be In A Breastless World, or Fun-bags That Aren't Fun Are Just Bags

Having boobs sort of sucks, and I wish they didn't exist.

To all the gentlemen out there reading this, I realize that your opinions may differ. Chances are you really like boobs. You might even be obsessed with them. Against your (allegedly) better judgement, I'd encourage you to open up your mind to the awesome possibility of a world without breasts.

The diatribe that will shortly follow may seem a little uncalled for, but you must believe it's not. My breast-hate is not entirely unfounded. I've been the owner of two of my own for upwards of a decade. With the exception of winning me a free drink here and here, rarely have they served me well. In fact, I'm one of a multitude of women young and old who has voluntarily reduced the size of her boobs for perfectly legit physiological reasons. My life is better for it, but wouldn't it be nice if an invasive surgery wasn't necessary at all? I wholeheartedly believe, albeit pointlessly, that a world without boobs would simply be a better place.

The first of many reasons I support a titless utopia is the issue of pain. Hate to break it to you, but boobs hurt. At least mine do. The initial growth of breasts is perhaps the most painful period of all. What turns into a veritable tumor of flesh and glands begins its existence as a little hard ball. Around age 10 these painful 'mosquito bites' make their first appearance causing unbearable tenderness and unsightly stretch marks for the next 4 to 6 years. But the pain doesn't stop there. It continues once a month for the rest of a woman's adult life, making it damn near impossible to do things most men take for granted like running, jumping, hugging, and getting punched in the chest. Breasts of the large variety can cause chronic back pain, and I've heard tit-feeding babies isn't the most comfortable thing in the world. Who's excited for bite marks and breast pumps? Ladies, I'm talking to you.
Looks like fun!
Another reason for my anti-boob position is the inherent unfairness of genetic variation. Any room with people in it will house as many breast types as it will women. Some boobs are small, some boobs are large. Most are lopsided. Many are made of silicone. This wide array of breast shapes, sizes, and chemical composition is the root of a lot of self-esteem issues for a shit-ton of women. Unless your boobs are perfectly proportioned to your frame, which, let's face it rarely happens, they're either too big or too small. Now, I've only ever been on one side of the size spectrum, so I can't speak for lesser endowed girls. But I can only imagine that it's not any fun being small chested. Many women are the subject of mean comments, cruel names, and unkind gossip for either being too small, too big, or too fake. I'm not really an advocate of fake boobs, nor am I and advocate of boobs at all, but what can we expect as a society if the emphasis is so squarely placed on boobie perfection? Hundreds of thousands of women put themselves under the knife every year in the name of their tiny/sagging/lopsided breasts. Some of them are under the age of 18. This is crazy to me! Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy?

Think about it: If we didn't have boobs, we wouldn't need fake boobs. And if we didn't have fake boobs, we wouldn't have horrible television shows like "The Real Housewives of Orange County," now would we. This, my friends, is the point.

Third reason: Cancer. Breast cancer kills millions of women ever year, and it scares the living shit out of me. So who effing needs it?

Other miscellaneous reasons include: underboob sweat, the excessive cost of decent bras, the impossibility of removing your shirt in public without being gawked at or called a slut, and accidentally bumping into people with your boobs is embarrassing. Also, 8 lbs of useless flesh pressing against my lungs impairs my breathing. Lifting my boobs off my chest actually makes breathing easier, so that can't be good for my health.

Hopefully I'm making myself clear.

Breasts have been near the focus of our existence as a species since the very beginning. True, boobies are not strictly for oogling or feeling up. The mammary gland is actually a useful organ for those who choose to reproduce. I'm just surprised we haven't evolved beyond our need for boobs.

The other edge to this sword is of course the fact that I'm glad I have boobs. I feel it's better to be born with than born without, sort of like I feel it's better to be born American than Canadian. Or that Coke is better than Pepsi. Or that dogs are better than cats.* After 10 years I'm pretty used to the disadvantages, though I do wish buying clothes was easier for well endowed women.

I'm sure that if you have an enormous penis, you can relate.

*Way, way better.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Desperate: A Sadly Appropriate Word For Housewife, or Motherhood Can Wait

I like kids, for the most part.

As an employee of the local school system, I spend a lot of time with kids. I enjoy the goofy things they say, and the way they dance around living rooms babbling nonsense. I generally like their carefree demeanor, and the untainted way in which they see the world. Someday I can see myself being a mother, and a good one at that. But that doesn't mean I want to have kids any time (even remotely) soon.

That's because for the last week and half, I've been playing single-mom/nurse to my 21 year old sister who has had debilitating kidney stones. With both dad and mom out of town, Lisa got to step in as surrogate parent; a role I didn't anticipate being so completely draining. I truly empathize with my ailing sibling, because she really has been in pain. But I'm super tired of taking care of her.

A week of doing dishes, cleaning up her unending messes*, taking her to the doctor, then to the ER, then to the doctor, then doing the grocery shopping, then changing the cat litter, then walking the dog, then making every meal and picking up prescriptions has sent me straight to the same place I fear a lot of wives and mothers have been before: Desperation.

How do I know I'm desperate? Because today as I was leaving the gym, I sincerely wanted to text my dog. I thought, "I miss Tilly, she is my best friend and she understands. I wish I could text her." I know I'm desperate because I sing songs about what I'm making for lunch to an audience of two animals. I've barely showered, and only change out of pajamas in dire circumstances. Perhaps worst of all, I used a free rental at Blockbuster on "Chariots of Fire." Why I did that, I'll never know. It's a terrible movie that I turned off in order to watch back to back TLC specials on obese teenagers - which I actually morbidly enjoy.

Playing Mom to a 21 year old sister, a 4 year old terrier, and a 5 month old cat has almost no redeeming benefits. I mean, I suppose I can martyr myself in the hopes of garnering pity, but beyond that, there is nothing really in it for me. The cat is a constant, unceasing pain in the ass, the sister is high maintenance, and the dog requires more love and attention than I do. It's exhausting. And only the dog says Thank You.

As a child, you cannot possibly contemplate the extreme task of child-rearing. None of us asked to be born, but after we were, the asking never ends. We badger our parents from the moment we're conceived for nourishment, shelter, attention, entertainment, and love. When my mom used to tell me to stop bothering her because she was tired, I didn't believe her. Instead, I thought maybe she was punishing me for future crimes. Moms don't get tired, was the commonly held belief among children my age. Moms exist to serve me and and only me. Eff you, Mom for wanting to read a book without interruptions. Don't you recognize my need to dance in front of you? Why aren't you making me more macaroni and cheese? You selfish bitch.

Now I know how she felt. Good moms and dads are the superheroes of the world. Perhaps as an actual parent, as opposed to a stand-in, the barrage of requests isn't viewed as a list of chores. Perhaps having kids is rewarding.

It must be, right?

*You have no idea just how messy.