So, two events coincided with one another this past weekend to make me feel really shitty about my body. The first was that I found out that Kate Hudson got a boob job. The second was that I attended a pool party yesterday, which made me feel like I needed to get a boob job. While Kate Hudson saddened me, the pool party maddened me, almost to the point where I was ready to rip the sky-high stripper stilettos off of one of the many female party-goers and puncture their fake, tanned boobs until every last drop of sillycone seeped out.
It isn’t that I have low self-esteem. Far from it. I have really high self esteem because it’s taken me years after leaving high school to realize that I’m beautiful. I can say I’m beautiful partly because I made the effort to pretty myself up by studying up on fashion trends and making/saving enough money to buy myself a enviable wardrobe to escape the Catholic-school-girl-meets-queen-of-the-Asian-dorks image I used to exude. Yeah, it took a lot of watching episodes of What Not to Wear to get me to this point. But I’m here. I have style. I have a great face. I wear a size 2. And I think I’m beautiful. And yet…
When I go to a pool party filled with perfect, size 0 bodies with spray-on tans, long blonde hair, long blonde legs, 10-inch booty-shaping stilettos and perfectly round C and D cups, I can’t help but feel completely fugly. I mean wouldn’t you? Picture your tiny Asian body, sitting by the pool, wearing a stupid red-and-white checkered blouse (to cover your tiny A cups) and high-waisted denim shorts (who the hell thought that was a good idea??) and flat gladiator sandals (which only make you look even shorter), refusing to take off your blouse and get in the pool. And it’s not that I have low self-esteem—overall. It’s just that I had situational low self-esteem at that moment. But, can you really blame me for it?
This is what, I imagine, happens to a lot of people when confronted with a stark comparison between their own body image and that of those around them. We think we’re fabulous, and then we realize that there’s this whole other level of fabulousness that we can’t even begin to aspire to. This is what I believe happens to people like Kate Gosselin, who used to wear short hair, skorts and mom jeans and now wears hair extensions, fake eyelashes and cleavage-bearing dresses on Dancing with the Stars. It’s the Hollywood effect. It’s what happens to Heidi Montag and Kate Hudson—two perfectly, naturally beautiful women—who eventually caved to the pressure to be even more perfect, whether externally imposed or self-imposed.
Upon arriving to the pool party, I had become 98% convinced that I needed to get a boob job. After all, Kate Hudson had done it. Friends on mine had done it. Sure, it was expensive, but I paid thousands of dollars to get my eyes corrected and didn’t have to get it done. What was the difference, anyway? Then I realized that the difference was that my eye surgery gave me a function I never had before: the ability to see clearly and not be blind as a bat. It was a correction to something defective. I started thinking about my little breasts in this way, as something defective that needed to be corrected. (This is what I believe Heidi Montag and Kate Hudson must have thought.) What was so defective about my A cups? What did I need them to do that they couldn’t do previously? The answer? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
Biologically speaking, the function of any woman’s breasts is to shoot out a bunch of milk which can be fed to her offspring. And since EVERY woman has the ability to breast feed, as an aftereffect of having a baby, the size of my breasts don’t affect that ability at all. What other function could there be? Would having fake boobs make sex more pleasurable? For the guy maybe, but not for me. In fact, I’d probably lose a lot of feeling in my nerves, and why would I want that? Would having bigger boobs help me succeed in life? Not unless I choose to become a stripper. Would having bigger boobs make me taller? No. Would having bigger boobs make me famous? Not unless I became a porn star. Would having bigger boobs make me groped in clubs? Even more than I am already!
And that, in short, is what did it for me. I DON’T want to be groped in clubs even more than I have been. I DON’T want to be a stripper or a porn star. I don’t want to be sexually objectified. I DO want to please my boyfriend. But I can do that in other ways than having big boobs. And if he doesn’t like it, he can get the hell out. I don’t want the incessant back pain that my friend Giani (an organic size double-D) experiences daily. I’ve never experienced how it feels to have sandbags on my chest, so why would I want to start now? I AM 100% HAPPY WITH THE BOOBS I HAVE NOW. And unless you have BREAST CANCER, I feel sorry for you if you’re not happy with yours. And I am NOT going to pat you on the back and say “more power to you” if you pay for yours.
Paying for new boobs is your choice, and I respect it. It’s your choice to make. But I don’t believe it empowers a woman. Maybe that’s just because I don’t live in Hollywood and am not being offered boat loads of money and gigs by male casting agents and directors. Who knows? Anyway, I don’t need to look up to you, Kate Hudson. There are 75 Celebrites with Small Boobs and Flat Chests That We Love, and probably even more. You don’t make me angry, just sad. What else makes me sad? The fact that Victoria’s Secret never makes any of the cute bras in an A cup! GRR!!! Doesn’t a single Asian person work for Victoria’s Secret who could rectify this??
Anyway, back to the party. A few minutes before I left, I spied another Asian girl walking into the pool area, wearing cute silver kitten heels and a white, flowery sundress, with a guy on her arm. She was flat-chested, like me, and stayed covered up with her sundress on. She and I were the two most-clothed women at the party. She and I were the only two Asian-American women. She was talking to some guy who seemed really interested in what she had to say. And unlike every other guy at the party, not ONCE did he turn to steal a glance at her chest. All I have to say is that’s the kind of guy I’d like to marry, please. And, rock on, sistah!
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