Okay, so I've noticed a great deal of turmoil in the Kingdom of Blog lately, especially among the feminists. I get what it's about...despite the kind of confusing bee analogy...but I'm going to stay out of it. I'm not a part of it. I'm going to keep my mouth shut. Or rather, my keyboard.
What I really want to talk about is boobs.
Ah, boobs. How we love them. They're so soft and squishy-bouncy and fun. Too bad I don't have any.
Okay, well I do technically have breasts, but not much. A former romantic interest of mine once described the size of them as a "mouthful." It was cute at the time...
I went bra shopping today. There isn't much that will make me feel more physically inadequate than shopping for bras. I wear a 34 A. It's hard to find a good bra in that size...and they never make it to sale prices. America loves big boobs, and, apparently, so does whoever decides how many bras of each size get put on the rack. Members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee kind of get the short end of the stick in this regard.
A lot of fleshier girls complain about how society likes bony skinny women. They look at me with a mix of envy and hatred. When men praise women who "look like real women," I feel left out. When a woman says "ew, look at that model, you can see the bones in her chest," I look down at my own ribcage and sigh. The slimness of my body--it's natural, too, my family got stuck with some skinny gene or other--is reviled as looking ghostly, cadaverous, prepubescent, or anorexic. Voluptuous girls are told they should love their curves, their healthy, womanly bodies. Skinny girls don't get told to love their bony hips and collarbones; we're told to gain weight. We're asked if we've got an eating disorder; "it's okay, you can talk about it, we can help." Thinness has been disease-ified.
Yes, my fleshy friends get taunted for their round asses and full chests and soft thighs. I know it's hard to grow up feeling fat. But middle school gym class was hell for me too...getting told "damn girl, eat a hamburger or something." Knowing the end to the rhyme, "Roses are red, violets are black..."
I guess what I'm saying is that even women who are "ideal"--model-thin, fine-boned as a bird, like I am--are held to standards we can't uphold. It's just as hard to learn to love ourselves, to be able to stand in front of a mirror and say, "damn...I'm not half bad, am I?"
Most of the time, I can do that.
But not when I go bra shopping.
Oh, by the way. I did find a few bras that I liked...I recommend Lily of France and l.e.i, for my small-boobed sisters. And has anyone else noticed how unreliable the sizing at Vicky's Secret is? Not to mention the pricing...remind me not to return any time soon.