My Boobs are No Longer in Fashion and I Could Not Be More Excited
A few weeks back I was watching the first episode of Luke Cage, in which Luke Cage totally bangs some super hot lady.
The super hot lady, obviously, take off all her clothes right away, while Luke Cage remains almost entirely dressed, because that is how sex happens when you are on TV*.
The second this unfortunate woman slipped off her bodycon dress, I let out of a little squeal of surprise and pain. Not because she was having sex with Luke Cage, he is a bit of a babe.
“What?” said Nick.
“Her boobs!” I said. “Look at them! Her poor boobs!”
The unfortunate mammaries were crammed into a push up bra so improbable I was surprised this woman was even able to remain upright. She must have been praying for the moment she got to be topless in front of tens of thousands of people just so she could get them out of that thing.
The assumption among society for seemingly forever has been that you either have big boobs or you’re willing to shell out for an expensive torture device to get them.
Enter Vogue, itself a torture device, which had a decisive word for everyone’s boobs last week.
They are out.
Dunzo. No more boobs. Nobody likes them anymore (except Luke Cage). Put down the expensive magic bras and invest instead in a buttoned up shirt with a pussy bow.
Now, this is unfortunate for me, because my boobs are usually classified as “pretty big” or “pretty enormous,” depending on whether the speaker buys sports bras from Target or those heavy duty triple clip ones you can’t get at Cotton On Body.
And it freaking sucks.
I literally always appear three sizes bigger than I really am. Normal office attire makes me look like I’m in a porno about sexy librarians. Clothing often fits everywhere else except over my chest, meaning a huge chunk of my wardrobe is made up of dresses and shirts that share more structural design with a camping tent than anything you’d find in a fashion mag. Despite this level of effort and self-sacrifice, old ladies at church often glare at my chest, as though I grew my boobs specifically to track them down and seduce their husbands.**
You know that creak an old stair makes when someone in a horror movie steps on it? The noise that signals to everyone that shit is about to go down?
That’s the noise my bra makes when I walk. Or shift in my seat, or you know, move. At all.
I have been literally given the fashion advice “Kim Kardashian is curvy, look at what she wears.”
That is horrifying. No human being should have to go through that.
My back hurts, my neck hurts, my wallet hurts from spending $120 a pop on a bra. And while looking for that bra my brain hurts because apparently a significant amount of women STILL want to buy a push-up bra even though they are an E-cup. WHO ARE THESE MONSTERS AND WHY DO THEY HATE THEMSELVES?
And every six months or so I have to sit through some hot skinny bitches with pouts on their perfect faces telling me “I just don’t understand, I’d love to have such great boobs.”
I’ve even had to sit through conversations in which acquaintances and co-workers told me they were about to shell out tens of thousands of their hard earned dollars so some fake doctor could cut their chest open, whack in some plastic, stitch it all up again and then pray to the God of malpractice lawsuits that nothing leaked or became infected.
WHY WHY WHY.
Big boobs are not great. My boobs are not great. You know the definition of a body part that is great? A body part that is great is functional and does not cause pain to its owner and does not require hundreds of dollars in upkeep each year.
You know whose boobs are great, skinny bitches? Your boobs are great.
I know, because during that one summer when all I ate was plain toast and nectarines, I too had normal-sized boobs. *Cue misty eyes*.
But you know which part of my body hurt then? NO PARTS. And do you know where I bought my bras? TARGET. GLORIOUS TARGET. And they were actually pretty and had cute shit like polka dots on them instead of being all weird and creaky and tan and misshapen.
Yes, some boys may like big boobs, but LITERALLY WHO CARES what some boys like. Some boys like Jeremy Clarkson. Some boys’ favourite book is The Da Vinci Code. Some boys think pineapple belongs on pizza. Some boys voted for Donald Trump.
Some boys are not a good judge of things. There is no accounting for the taste of some boys.
So please, bring on this new era of small-titted greatness. I welcome our new overlords of the A-cup. This is – and I feel like I should put a trigger warning on this phrase given the amount of times it has been co-opted by old men with right wing political views – perhaps fashion’s first great victory for common sense.****
Besides, as some drunk guy once told me at a party once, more than a handful is a waste.
*Seriously, if Game of Thrones was the only sex education you had ever had, you would 100% think sex happened like:
1/ Woman takes off literally all her clothing and stands full frontal, facing the dude, which he stares at her like she’s a piece of clothing he wants and he’s deciding whether or not it’s too expensive
2/ The guy gives a long, impassioned monologue about his feelings, which are usually about something completely unrelated and gross, like his dead mother or the girl he’d rather be banging or his unquenchable thirst for the blood of the Lannisters
3/ The guy runs at her like he’s going for a tackle in a game of rugby
** I’m not, I just wanted to get an Oreo from the snack table.
***Since the bushy eyebrows comeback of 2014, of course. Long may our lord Cara Delavigne reign.