Boobs
I know other women are cool with the cleavage. I wish I was one of them. I'm not. I have a couple of summer dresses that are so comfortable except it is all boob all the time.
And I hate the word "boob".
I used to date this guy who insisted on calling his best friend a "boob". Dude, "douchbag" would have been a much nicer nickname. For some reason, "boob" is just so insulting. I guess it just conjures up the image of something that is jiggly, jolly and totally clueless. Although, I'll have you know that my boobs are anything BUT clueless.
My chest totally knows the score. If there is a slight, visible curvature catching a summer breeze, my breasts know that they are going to be stared at and that they will make me look like a wounded deer to a pack of hungry wolves. Come and get me! My breasts so don't want to send that message. They prefer discretion. It is just that it is so bloody hot and I sweat like red peppers in a frying pan. We've come to an agreement, my breasts and I.
The agreement is that I will wear these lowcut dresses and pretend that I'm not. That way, I can be oblivious to the hungry stares and the less than polite "Hello there" that we encounter on a daily basis. When I slip and accidently notice the leering, I start to think about my slack, stretch mark covered belly. That takes my mind off things.
And I hate the word "boob".
I used to date this guy who insisted on calling his best friend a "boob". Dude, "douchbag" would have been a much nicer nickname. For some reason, "boob" is just so insulting. I guess it just conjures up the image of something that is jiggly, jolly and totally clueless. Although, I'll have you know that my boobs are anything BUT clueless.
My chest totally knows the score. If there is a slight, visible curvature catching a summer breeze, my breasts know that they are going to be stared at and that they will make me look like a wounded deer to a pack of hungry wolves. Come and get me! My breasts so don't want to send that message. They prefer discretion. It is just that it is so bloody hot and I sweat like red peppers in a frying pan. We've come to an agreement, my breasts and I.
The agreement is that I will wear these lowcut dresses and pretend that I'm not. That way, I can be oblivious to the hungry stares and the less than polite "Hello there" that we encounter on a daily basis. When I slip and accidently notice the leering, I start to think about my slack, stretch mark covered belly. That takes my mind off things.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 1:21 PM
5 Comments:
Wow. Who's whining? Obviously you didn't read the entire post where I said that I, basically, choose to ignore it and focus on my not-so -hot belly. I AM over myself. Not to mention that in my other posts I clearly mention that I appreciate being appreciated.
I so shouldn't respond to this, but I just can't resist the urge to call you a dick. Don't take it the wrong way, I mean, with your dickishness so prominently displayed you can't blame me for pointing it out. It's like you're asking for it.
Andrew-
You were being insensitive before. ("Yawn. Get over yourself" isn't a polite way to respond to someone's personal blog). Now are ARE being a dick. Seriously.
Bree-
I think that Andrew had a fair point, no matter how dickishly expressed. Men are compelled to look at boobs, and this compulsion is in our DNA. Should you wear a low-cut neckline in my presence and my eyes fall below your chin as a result of my failure to combat thousands of years of evolution, I hope very much that'll keep this in mind before you deck me.
I think Jake once said it best:
"Mmmmmm....boobies..."
So it is my use of imagery that has caused offense? That's exactly what it feels like. Never once did I ask anyone to stop. I challenge you to find the "STOP YOU MONSTER!" anywhere in my post. I was simply lamenting the fact that I feel more comfortable in these dresses in the heat but my own sense of modesty causes an inner conflict. Perhaps you didn't catch the "inner" part. You can do whatever you want as long as you don't stalk me or touch me uninvited.
And here's a newsflash- girls look at boobies too.
I totally know that I responded childishly. I just couldn't help myself. When someone tells me to get over myself, my inner bitch comes out. I'm not going to apologize. He totally was being a dick.
Never once did I tell you to apologize. I challenge you to find the "APOLOGIZE, DAMMIT!" anywhere in my comments.
Touche.
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