Put Your Breast Foot Forward

As an English major and word-monger I was aghast when the my eyes skimmed over “Beauty and the Breast,” Glamour magazine’s October how-to which instructs women everywhere to “make their chests over” with an array of creams, acids and something called a YAG laser. Not only did the quick-witted style sergeants declare that open-down-to-there shirts are apparently the thing to wear, but they did so with some of the most offensive puns I have ever read. The word “best” begins with the same letter as the word “breast,” ’tis true, but that doesn’t mean substituting one for another mid-sentence will get me to YAG laser the cleavage freckles I got from trying to achieve last July’s golden goddess hue.

Hey wait a minute! Golden goddess hue? What am I talking about? I’m black and have never sunbathed a day in my life. Befreckled or not, I must protest the simultaneous assault on my mind and my boobies. After reading the “how-to” again in disbelief, I still can’t decide which is worst; the line “Wearing a support bra every day is your breast defense for staying, well, uplifted,” or the realization that I haven’t been doing three reps of push-ups four times a week and therefore have not been developing the muscle that will magically transform my breasts into a veritable man-grabbing dynamic duo. Holy nipples, Batman!!!

And while we’re on the subject, what’s with breasts anyway? Yes, yes, lactose factories specially designed to feed your little bundle of goodness, but that won’t be an issue for eons. Right, guys? For now, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dummer sit there unaware that there is a job to be done. Attracting guys at a party, arguing my way out of an overdue book fine, getting an extension on an extension for that killer 2 to 3 page paper from my not-quite-27-year-old TF—until now I’ve always relied on my noggin to talk my way out of life’s little “30-days-till-eviction” situations, but maybe my lazy lumps of flesh should start paying some of the rent.

Let’s see now, after buying all of the books I probably won’t read this semester, I don’t have enough money for the suggested three-step guide to a killer chest, so I’ll just have to improvise. The first thought that comes to mind is buying some of the creams and potions that regularly appear on the last few pages of every Glamour, but ordering a product featured fewer than two inches away from Ms. Cleo’s Tarot Card Reading is just too sketchy. In the still readable section of Glamour, there is an ad for the “all-natural” Bloussant that caught my eye. Miss “no-I-don’t-have-a-face-just-all-natural-copious-cleavage” has opened her shirt to show the world what a 60-day trial bottle of Bloussant did for her. I can see it now: I begin my daily get-ready regimen with a few Bloussant wonder pills only to have the “guaranteed” growth formula create a rash that the lovely nurses at UHS would diagnose as pregnancy for sure or, even worse, add a third useless boobie to the two I’ve already got.

There are, of course, a host of options that don’t involve potions, pills or Jack’s magic bean, namely the arsenal of medieval-inspired brassieres that promise to hoist, squeeze, lift and hydro-thrust my breasts oh-so-far out there for every Tom, Dick and sketchy first-year to ogle. Britney I am not, and the thought of making my little ladies scream “hit me baby one more time” sends me into a panic.

I could simply take advantage of the brisk weather and let my little boobie-bullets make unsuspecting passers-by go absolutely wonky with disbelief, envy or dog-in-heat desire. But I can’t really justify kicking my breasts into high gear only to have them freeze up and fall off, shriveled and stunned at having been exposed to brutal, Boston-style, 90-mile-per-hour, “but-it-was-75-degrees-yesterday” winds. No, these suckers are staying locked away for now, destined to spend this fall-winter season behind Gap’s latest chunky-monkey, high-neck sweater.

I suppose that since I refuse to make my breasts earn their keep, they’ll just have to continue taking a back seat to my charming wit and come-hither smile. That’s it, my almost ample attack dogs will not be bad-punned into taking center stage for now, no matter how tantalizing the Bloussant model makes her curvy curves look.

Antoinette C. Nwandu ’02 is an English concentrator in Cabot House. Her column appears on alternate Mondays.