muslin, inevitably a virginal white, designed to simultaneously secure the bosom
and provoke its own destruction. Fabio became famous ripping the darn things off
38DD babes on the covers of books with titles like “Love’s Forgotten Fury” and
“Blazing Shores of Passion.” Only Vivienne Westwood does bodices anymore, but
she tends to juxtapose them with footballer shoulder pads and slashed fishnet
tights, more Xena Fashion Princess than chesty damsel in
distress.
My own bosom can barely muster
a heave. When a friend told me that the going rate for enlargement surgery in
Bangkok was 5,000 baht a breast, I actually spent a couple of neurons thinking
about it. I’ve always been insecure about my cup size. You know that joke about
the man who walks into a lingerie store looking for a bra for his girlfriend? A
sales girl spots him as he stands bewildered in front of a stack of bras. She
takes pity on him and asks, are they the size of watermelons? He says no,
smaller. Cantaloupes? No, smaller. Apples? No, smaller. Eggs? His eyes light up
and he answers, yes, fried!
That’s me,
the fried egg girl.
My mom used to tell me that my boobs
would get bigger if I let guys feel them up. (No, she did not say this in an
encouraging manner.)
I would much rather
invest in non-invasive procedures, except I have always felt that foam, gel,
air, and whatever manufacturers are stuffing into bras nowadays do not exemplify
truth in advertising. I could go through life with arms pressed firmly to my
sides and torso slightly bent over, but that would make activities such as
eating and breathing difficult.
Until
somebody invents foolproof implants, or reverse liposuction, I will most likely
rely on strategic draping of cloth, and an extra helping of
ruffles.