Sunday, December 04, 2005

"Breasts: How Proudly They Wave"

I would like to talk about Breasts:
Breasts, boobies, Winnebagos, ta-ta’s, melons (all kinds depending upon size), hooters, feeders, ho-hos, bazoongas, bodacious hahas, the girls, milkers, boulders, bettyboops, fried eggs, lulus, ant bites, mole hills, alps, apples, Babylons, bazookas, breed winners – See the full scope here: Slang for Breasts
I don’t want to necessarily talk about my breasts, although, by default “they,” I guess, come into the picture. Karl Marx said that the process of fetishizing was a process in which we abstract something from something else and so the thing fetishized gains the power. Thus, we give power over to an object, for example. Breasts are fetishized in our culture. I am continuously amazed at the power breasts hold. Winnebagos, if you will, seem to stand alone, and I am not just talking about their perkiness after implants. In general, they become divorced from a woman’s body and take on power outside of us. For example, I personally almost never have the problem of someone talking to my hohos instead of me. This, I have noticed when around girlfriends who have large breasts, is a problem for many women, and several of these women have learned to ignore the fact that an individual is not talking to them but to their breasts. I am deducing that it is a defense mechanism. Once, I was walking down the street with a friend, who happened to have very large and bodacious hahas, and the man who was jogging opposite of us, jogged right into me because he was watching her breasts and not where he was going. The other day, my lulus were floating free and easy outside of their normal jailed reality but concealed by a shirt, when a guy came to the door. While talking, I noticed that he was talking to my car waxers instead of me. As I am getting older, I was a little worried that he was eyeing my chesticles because my floaters might not float as high anymore. I had to resist the urge to check myself because, then, I feared we would both be talking to my hood ornaments and I, personally, would be absolutely absent in the conversation. On a personal, defensive, note: No, they do not hang to and fro by my knees, thank you. As I said, I normally don’t have this problem being a little on the “slight” side, and so had not developed the defensive mechanism needed to ignore the situation. I am rather surprised no one has invented some type of machine that allows breasts to talk for themselves instead of having to use me as a conduit. Because society has endorsed the breast as a stand alone sex symbol, many women I have spoken to have also felt like their breasts are stand alone entities (notice the root of tit in this word?). The other day I confessed to a friend of mine that I think breasts are weird and when I stand naked in front of a mirror, and really look at them, I feel like they are foreign elements to my body. She, I was relieved to hear, felt the same way. Part of the problem, she accurately pointed out, was the fact that neither one of us has had children and so has not put our breasts to work as they are formed for. I thought this was a good observation. Indeed, if I had used them as baby feeders, I might not feel so alienated from them. Yet, I thought to myself, people protest when a woman unhooks one of her hounds and puts it to work feeding a young pup in public. Protests of obscenity are heard. News organizations are alerted and restaurant owners quietly ask the offending woman to leave the premises. Around the block, however, the wet tee-shirt contest is in high swing. Here, no one is alerted except for other excited people passing by and, by magnet force, is drawn into the establishment. Not by the beer. Not by the Jello-shots. Not by the music blaring out into the night. Not by the young dancing women. But by the wet “girls” who are popping out in the cold. Here, they tease you; they reveal only a part of themselves. The buttons enthrall you and beckon to you. Their power is immense and they command attention. Fried eggs or not, thank god the jumbo chickpeas are out tonight! Is it any wonder why women feel alienated from their breasts? Rebecca

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