Marcy K

Last weekend I had a headache. It was the kind of dull ache that started just as I was crawling into my queen-sized bed after a late Saturday night bender (or early Sunday morning).

There I was, alone again. Me and my microscopic boobies.

My ex-boyfriend, Ron, used to tell me it was okay to have an "athletic" frame. But those were his words, not mine. Can you almost hear it?

"Hey hun, you don't need boobs, right? You're perfect as you are," he cooed.

Right.

But Ron wore argyle sweaters and was into things like pasta and priding himself on his annoying sense of "ethical pride." He hated going to bars that didn't play Johnny Cash or some woe-is-me-tune that made me think my personal life was as exciting as an evening in rural North Dakota. This was before I gathered enough gusto to face a Chicago night scene that intimidated me upon my arrival from the north. This was before the boobie issue bothered me. And most importantly, it was before I didn't have a problem dating guys with names like "Ron."

Am I being superficial here? Sure, maybe some of that nastiness has rubbed off on me. Admit it. I work at an ad agency where I make it a business to strap on my invisible flack jacket every morning to combat the superficial bureaucracy of the ad-agency world. It's ingrained in the system, like a bad weave. But after a year or so of big-boobie bombardment and all that talk of lipstick and nails by the water cooler, something sets in. Something starts to change you.

That's why I don't understand why I was so bothered with my headache and the root of its cause as I curled into bed alone during the early morning hours. The night went as planned. This time, it was me feeling my way through the back lounge at Enclave with Kara and Suzanne, my agency allies who drank Sapphire and tonics with forced delicacy.

"Don't bump my arm," they would yell over hip-hop grooves. Impossible. I was spending a good portion of the time wedged on a too-tight-to-move lounge space, getting knocked around by big breasts.

I have strived to understand the boobie phenomena, especially over the last year or so since moving to Chicago from suburban-safe Milwaukee. It seems to me that they are everywhere these days--and that single (and not-so-single) men in this city have it much too good. Here they are, getting carte blanche on big breasts, leaving those less-endowed beauties (like myself) dancing with our shadows. How did they spawn? How come all of a sudden it's become the industry standard to have glammed-up boobs in this city? Or anywhere, for that matter? Those little glittery tops just sag miserably on my lean chest with little there to create jiggle.

I've dated plenty of men who reluctantly accepted and romped through my own personal prairie fields. At the same time, I've put up with men ogling those busty beauties in the bar--real or not--wishing for a few more handfuls when they slipped away with me for the evening. Christ, back in Milwaukee, my own mother (who is equally "endowed" as myself, if not less) has put up with my father peeking at the newfound glory of boobs--endless boobs!--joking with him before shoving an ice-cream cone into his mustache and telling him that the goods were right in front of him: lean, lithe and easy to charm.

"Here," she would say pinching his belly, and he would comply, because after thirty years of marriage, what else can you do?

But I don't have thirty years of marriage to lean against. I have a queen-sized bed, a one-bedroom apartment and a window I can gaze from when the traffic eases on Lincoln Avenue. At night, the radiator is too hot, even when I sleep alone. Here, my bra size is a 36A and I am still contemplating the consequences of authenticity.

Right now, I don't have much to put up with at all.

(2007-02-06)

Also by Marcy K

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