I was brought up in a culture that objectified women and still does. As an adolescent, I leered at “Playboy”. The natural “gifts” on display there set an impossible standard for most women, let alone my unfortunate sixth grade female class-mates. Glossy, full color pages featured female mammary glands in all manner of presentation, selectively secreted by seductive lighting, imprisoned provocatively by the sheerest of containment or cleverly (but barely) concealed or simply “suggested” by a cheeky stylist through an inspired wardrobe choice.
When implants first started to “appear,” I thought they looked unnatural and still do. Still, they remain popular. Google “breasts” and you’ll see what I mean. Over 2.1 million results in less than 5 seconds. And with a title like “The Big Breast”, while this is far from my best post, I predict it will be among the most read.
Today’s implants test the elasticity of the skin itself, pushing to the surface bulging veins and skin flaws that make breasts look like topographic globes. They’re grotesque, yet oddly fascinating.
Nowhere is this more apparent than with female weight lifters. With masculine bodies, old school female proponents of the sport were at times difficult to differentiate from their male counterparts. Enter breast implants.
Now, women of steel can sport bug-eyed headlights that precede the arrival of the rest of their bodies by milliseconds. Their scantily clad torsos resemble dual Victorian ottomans with a button center, bulging fabric and rippled edges. I find these women visually disturbing on a Freudian level.
Some women seek rib cages adorned with saline or silicone pouches so massive that they threaten healthy respiration, musculature and spinal alignment. Armed with giant implants, today’s cosmetic surgeons can turn women into the human equivalent of the turkey whose out-of whack upper bodies affect mobility itself.
Consider this flightless bird that serves no function I know of other than to be eaten. If there are other applications for the turkey, accept my apologies. They may need a publicist.
When I think of turkey, I think of Pilgrims, football, pumpkin pie and long naps. Today’s turkey breasts are so massive that scrawny turkey legs simply snap under the stress.
When I was a kid, we raised rabbits and some chickens, butchering both. Of course, if asked how rabbit tastes, we’d all say, “It tastes just like chicken”. We thought ourselves hilarious. It was lonely out there on the farm. Small wonder that Playboy so demanded our attention. Anyway, back then a large chicken breast was a little smaller than my dad’s closed fist. Today’s roasters look like yesterday’s hen turkey. Chicken thighs look like breasts used to. Today’s chicken breast yields enough meat for two hungry adults. It’s nuts, I tell ya, just freakin nuts!
We’re eating mutants! When is enough enough? We adjust recipes. We waste more. And I’m convinced that the mammoth parts–especially the white meat–lacks the flavor of smaller cuts. I am not timid about eating. I do it often and well. If I can’t finish something, it’s too damn big.
Some women think that tits apparently ready to explode are attractive. They willingly pay dearly for medical modifications many live to regret. Why?
I leave you with two questions: are big breasts another example of bigger not being better? If not, since we spend so much time transfixed in bemused fascination as we revel in trading suspicions/ observations about such superficial modifications, what does it say about us?
(PS: I’ve written about politics, jobs, the economy, race, poverty, isolation, healthcare, violence, torture, hate, religion, forgiveness, sexism, music, culture, yada yada… Some 268 posts from dead serious to whymsical. I just checked traffic and although this post has been up just 3 hours, it’s ranked 2nd for the day. On the internet, “Big Breasts” generate big hits. Include a photo and “Katy, bar the door!” )