First, I'd like to state that I'm an "A".... cup. In Academia, the letter "A," as in "A" student, is revered and rewarded with the best schools and great jobs. In restaurant and movie reviews, an "A" is highly-coveted, popular and crowded. But an "A" in the world of breasts goes ignored and unnoticed. Sure, in France, the A cup is considered the perfect breast size; the shape delightfully fills an old-fashioned champagne glass. Problem is, I'm from Brooklyn. The perfect size there is gigantic, as in large enough to choke a barrel.
The battle of the breasts has grown to new proportions in the era of implants. In spite of the medical facts, scars and class action suits all implying that breast implants can be dangerous to one's health, little girls are getting bigger every year. Recent studies reveal that among 20-year-old females, the greatest demands for cosmetic surgery are breast implants.
When I was 20, every girl of a certain socio-economic bracket wanted a rhinoplasty or "nose job." Today, it's a "boob job." I guess if your breasts are larger, your nose looks smaller, or if your breasts are really large, no one even notices your nose.
Now don't get me wrong; I'm not against large breasts. Many a time in my life I've felt inadequate having small breasts, or as I affectionately call them, my minor disappointments. They make bathing suits look dull. They make men look away.
Before the era of surgical alteration, "What nature had forgotten, we filled with cotton." Yes, I confess, on more than one occasion I've worn a padded bra. You may call me a stuffer. They look great with sweaters. But overall, I like the variety of being small-breasted, because by creatively utilizing undergarments I can be any size you want. Some women wear wigs to go with different outfits; I have bras of different sizes and shapes to go with my wardrobe and boob moods. I feel happier and healthier shopping for bras than going under the knife. I especially like being small-breasted on hot summer days when most buxom women would want to go braless, afraid of bouncing their way up a flight of stairs and getting a black eye.
Why are other women's breasts my concern, you may ask? I worked as publicist for LA's uber-nightspot, the poolside bar at the Sunset Tower Hotel. It was my job to spot trends and celebrities and tell the press. One Friday night, the place was packed. As I eagerly waited for someone to accidentally fall into the pool, I noticed the crowd around me: All young women with surgically implanted breasts. I thought I'd stepped into some Russ Meyer fantasy film, some sort of Return to the Valley of the Titty Freak from Rodeo Drive.
Seeing all these enhanced divas, at first, I felt confused. Were we the same species? Next, I felt small, or pectorally challenged. My next wave of emotion was sadness for all the young women whose self-image was so caught up in the act of mutilation to please men -- an objectification of their selves.
In my world I revere a great personality. I prize wit over tit. Some say I'm misguided. I tell them they're shallow.
Speaking of female objectification, while standing at the bar I noticed a familiar, though aging male face, Playboy's Hugh Hefner. Yep, Hef and his bevy of buxom blonde bunnies were having a night on the town. I looked around the room again. The room was booming blonder, with breasts high and round, like fresh produce being smuggled under skintight spandex tops. Women stopped in front of Hef, the mammary maven, smiled, flashing as much cleavage as they could muster. Once they caught his attention, they lifted their tops, revealing bare breasts. He nodded and smiled, the pleased connoisseur.
On my night of a hundred implants, I reflected on what this would mean in the next decade. Natural breasts would become a rarity. So, small breasts would become a scarcity, highly valued like other small precious things: caviar... computer chips... diamonds! Who knows, maybe in the year 2020, one hundred years after the flapper era, small breasts will be in fashion again.
My New Year's prediction: The small breast will make a comeback; breast reduction surgery will be all the rage. My tits would be fashion trendsetters.
Gazing out at the pool and the starry Hollywood skyline, I turned to my natural-breasted companion and said, "I think we're the only one's here with our original breasts." Overhearing me, I saw a blonde with cheek implants and collagen-stung lips. She sneered. (I think she sneered. It was kind of hard to tell, she couldn't really move her face.) At that moment, I knew I had two things that none of the other women in the room had: A strong sense of self and a library card.
For a humorous peek at amorous adventures after 50, check out The Last Place She'd Look or visit arleneschindler.com, and follow Arlene on Facebook.
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