It’s About Boobs…

Have you ever thought about being someone different, even if for just one day? Have you ever dreamt about what might have been if you had chosen a different road to follow? Well, if you’ve been reading my posts, you know I’ve done this before. Almost regularly. I once pretended to be a business major for a day that turned into four years. As a medical society executive, I routinely had to pretend that I was a confident, outgoing person. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to walk into a crowded ballroom full of people a foot taller than me. (I’m usually one of the tallest women in a crowd.) And on most days with my daughter Meghan, I pretend I know what I’m doing.

My friend Chris and I are on our cross-country road trip (from Ohio to California) when we decide we are going to transform ourselves into two people we are not. Just for the trip. We’ll revert back to our old, boring selves once we arrive in California.

One of our first experiments doesn’t begin until we arrive in Texas. Much of our journey thus far has included a lot of driving and singing along to music. Because the year is 1997, we make full use of my extensive collection of cassette tapes when a viable radio station can’t be found.

So, Chris and I, are both bust-challenged. Me more than Chris. During our hours on the road we have discussed a myriad of topics. One is the size of our boobies. To be honest, I don’t really care about my small boobs. If I’m ever lamenting the fact that my stomach sticks out further than my boobs, I remind myself that breasts are just big balls of fat – fat that I don’t happen have. In the one place where I’d actually like to have it!

We begin to ponder aloud what it would be like to be a buxom, full-bodied, big-busted woman. Do they enjoy more attention bestowed upon them? Do they get free drinks in bars? Are strangers constantly approaching them, asking for dates? Do men stare at them when they cross the floor at a restaurant or bar? We just want to know if people react to and interact with big busted women differently that they do with flat-chested women. Our hypothesis: Yes, to all of the above.

We begin planning our social experiment to prove our hypothesis.

I took a sociology course as a freshman in college. To be honest, I thought it would be an easy “A”. (My class schedule during my entire first year was developed by choosing those classes that looked like they would be the easiest to pass with little effort on my part. As it turned out, I was not a good judge of determining which classes would be easy.) At any rate, one assignment we had in Sociology 101, was to develop a questionnaire and then go to a shopping mall, approach strangers, and ask them if they would answer a few questions from the survey. I think we had to get at least ten participants — ten completed surveys. This activity was completely out of my comfort zone.

In Chris’ and my social experiment, we will play a much, much, much more passive role. The only thing we will have to do is acquire some big boobs and go about our business.

In order to get us some big ole boobs we will have to buy us some big ole bras.

First stop: the lingerie section of a department store.

Since we are in an unfamiliar state, Texas, and it’s long before cars or mobile phones have GPS to help us find a shopping mall, we take a random exit off the highway – I don’t know what town we are in – and just start driving around. It actually doesn’t take us very long to find not just a department store, but a Foley department store! Who knew there was such a thing? We don’t have these in Ohio but maybe they’ll have some in California. One thing’s for sure: I need to get a Foley credit card.

In a blink of an eye, our first order of business changes from getting a bra to getting a credit card. Getting a credit card should be easy enough since there are credit card applications on display as soon as we enter the store. I shove one into the back pocket of my jeans, readily available for when we check out.

—   —   —

Well, I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve shopped for a bra at a Macy’s-type department store and not a Target-type of department store. I am overwhelmed by the selection! Jeepers!

We begin our search. We split up in order to cover more aisles more efficiently. Before long, I think I’ve found the perfect bra. I had been thinking that we’d buy bras with really firm, bigger-than-we-could-fill cups that were able to stay firm on their own. The kind my husband Pat wore as part of a Halloween costume one year. But we don’t have to go that route because I discover in the second aisle that they now make gel-filled bras that I think will do the trick.

Now I have to decide how big I want to go. A voice inside my head is telling me, Bigger! Bigger! Bigger! So I listen.

Neither of us want to try the bras on, so we don’t.

We check out using my new Foley credit. (It will be a few weeks before my actual credit card arrives in the mail. For years afterward my gold-colored Foley card adorned our refrigerator.)

Foley’s is having a “buy-two-get-one-free” bra deal going on and, because I’m more into this experiment than Chris, I get the third free bra.  

That evening we check into our hotel, eager to get to our room and try on our new monster bras.

—   —   —

Well… What a letdown.

Yes, the bra fits around my rib cage. And the unfilled cups are standing up nicely. If it weren’t for my bony chest just above the gel-filled cups, I suppose it looks somewhat natural…

But I look like a friggin’ linebacker! I’m tall already and now, with this big ole bra on, I look like I’m wearing shoulder pads. Certainly not the look I’m going for. Our hypothesis for our little social experiment had been that we, as big-busted women, would attract a lot of attention from the opposite sex. You know, guys trying to start conversations with us, wanting to buy us drinks, whatever. Tonight, when we go out, I know our hypothesis will be a great big fail.

The bras are on; it’s time to get dressed. My tops don’t fit right, of course. I have monster boobs now. Nothing looks right. I certainly don’t look sexy. I may have big breasts, but I have no cleavage. I don’t look big-busted, I just look big. I’m kind of in a sour mood now. This is not a good experiment for me.

And off we go to dinner. Chris’ chest doesn’t look any different to me. I think she may have purchased just a regular bra… or maybe she’s not wearing the bra she bought. I’m feeling too blobbish to care.

I know I’m giving off an “I’m-a-linebacker-do-not-bother-me” vibe and that, coupled with my linebacker look, are the reasons why no one treats me any differently tonight than they did when Chris and I went out to dinner last night. To be fair, it’s not like either one of us left our table at the restaurant and we didn’t go out to a bar afterward, so what could we expect?

Still. I have big boobs and I’m depressed and sad.

I know this is just a minor social experiment with no scientific value whatsoever and I suspect that our methods weren’t sound, to say the least. That has to be why our hypothesis that big breasted women get special treatment and more attention from men was totally wrong. Surely, there’s some social benefit to being big busted that maybe we overlooked? It couldn’t be that when well-endowed women go out, they end up feeling as depressed and sad as I do right now. For your sakes, Chaboob and Mishka, I hope it’s not so.

What have I learned from our little social experiment? First and foremost, I’m no sociologist. 2. I look like a football player when I wear oversized, gel-filled bras. 3. It’s not about how you look, it’s about how you feel but if you look like a football player, you’re going to feel like a football player, and you may even act like a football player. 4. It’s cheaper and more convenient to buy bras at Target than at Foley’s. 5. Gel-filled bras take up a heck of a lot of room in your bra drawer.

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I remember in high school, my friend Becky, gave me a small plaque. It was out of the blue. I don’t think it was my birthday and as friends, we weren’t that close. The plaque read, “Small breasted women have big hearts.” When she handed it to me, I remember thinking, Gee, I guess she thinks I have a flat chest. I was kind of offended because I couldn’t remember ever talking to Becky about being flat chested. She saw me and just knew I was destined to be small breasted for the rest of my life.

—   —   —

A few of my best friends from high school answer to the nickname “Point” because of our little pointer boobies. Some of us had them in high school, three of us still have them today. I’m one of them. When the three of us are no more, my group of friends will be “pointless.” (Sorry, it’s late.)

—   —   —

Several years ago, Pat and I went out to dinner with his parents. I think we were in ou0r early thirties. At some point my in-laws began talking about Pat’s oldest sister, Ellen. Boasting about how tiny she was. How she could still fit in clothed she wore in high school. Blah, blah, blah. The conversation seemed to go on forever! I couldn’t take another minute of the praise they were lavishing on someone who wasn’t even there. Finally, there was a lull. I cleared my throat.

“I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I can beat Ellen. I wear the same bra size I wore when I was twelve!”

I had never seen my father-in-law laugh so hard.