Boobs. Tits. Breasts. Jugs. Hooters. Whatever synonym you choose for reference, these fatty bulges made my adolescence an all-inclusive trip to HELL. Boobs receive a lot of attention in our society and sure, they can be tits fun, but only in the best of contexts.

I developed early. Too early. When I was eight, I was forced to wear a bra. My mother decided that brutal honesty was the best route for building a healthy body image.

Of course, being MY mother, our discussion was more of a sing-along. To this day I can remember her singing (loudly, to the point of screaming) to the tune of that classic song “Do your ears hang low?” Her version went:

Do your boobs hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulders? Like a Continental soldier?
DO YOUR BOOBS HANG LOW?!

Bra flung at my face. I have no choice. I will forever wear it…

for fear that my boobs will hang low…

and wobble to and fro.

Some women enjoy having boobs. Some yearn for larger boobs. There’s articles of clothing named “boob shirts” so that gals may flaunt their sex bumps. I am both appalled and utterly jealous of their confidence (I am appalled only due to my inability to embrace my own chestal area). However, with my personal experiences and some awkward observational sessions, I’ve discovered that boobs are nothing but an evil source of pain and require too much time and money to maintain. You think me too harsh?

Exhibit A:

Boobs are THE reason why I refuse to exercise. It has nothing to do with me being lazy. In high school, I was forced to run laps despite my complaints of dislocating my boob.

Is it even possible to dislocate a boob? Why do mine hurt? Is it because I accidentally punched one while running? Is it because I rammed my boob into a door? Are these boob-things going to eventually fall off due to acute trauma?!

My gym teacher could not be convinced of my hardship.

Exhibit B:

At the age of sixteen my boobs became an unstoppable force. I would bend over and SNAP – now I need a new bra. Think “Houdini tits.” The tits that refused to be bound! They will find a way to freedom.

The absolute worst time for this to happen is during Christmas at your extended family’s house.

Crap. My bra broke.

One hour later:

I guess I’ll throw it away.

I’ll bury it deep in the garbage, so no one will see it.

Sitting in the kitchen… family member walks in, holding my bra in the air.

“Whose bra is this?”

Entire family looks around the room, wondering.

I raise my hand, claiming ownership of the rogue brassiere. I want to die. NOW.

Exhibit C:

I’m a grown woman! I should know what bra size I am. After years of enduring underwire-snap- attacks, I officially give up on being independent and ask the saleslady at Victoria’s Secret to measure me.

I’m now in a tiny room with a stranger. Why did I follow her here? Am I going to get kidnapped… or… boob-napped?

A normal person would have no problem standing here with no shirt on, but I was a fat teenager and never played 7 Minutes in Heaven. I have no experience standing in a closet with a stranger touching me. Why am I breathing so heavily? I hope she doesn’t think I’m INTO this.

The lovely saleslady is wrapping the tape around me (please don’t strangle me with it) and is cocking her eyebrow.

“What size have you been wearing?”

“Um, I’ve been shoving them into a 38 C.”

She doesn’t even know what to say at this point. Great. My boobilly-challenged self has silenced the boob expert.

“Why? What am I supposed to be wearing?”

“I’ll go and grab you a DD.”

She’s so judging me right now.

Exhibit D:

Sometimes when a person eats, food accidentally falls out of their mouth. This food crumb is supposed to land on the table or the floor, but since I have stupid boobs, the food crumb ends up in my bra. And I have to get it out… And maybe (definitely) eat this crumb.

And this usually happens on the rare occasion that I leave my house for a bite.

I’m desperately trying to make this digging expedition as casual as possible…

Unfortunately, there’s nothing casual about finger-searching your cleavage and the people around you become confused/embarrassed (aroused?). Yet, the tastier the food, the less I care about digging in my bra. The fact is, all that digging is worth it as long as the crumb is amazing. The anomaly in these data-gathering-research-situations is what I call “the soup point”. Soup is much tastier than say, carrot or tortilla bits. The situation remains awkward because soup is messy and scalds the boob flesh.

The universe has taught me many things, one of which is the fact that you WILL spill food all over your shirt, but even if it is the best Hungarian mushroom soup you’ve ever had, in no way is it socially appropriate to lick/suck the soup out of your shirt. That is an instinct that can/should be suppressed. Of course, I’ve failed at suppressing this urge.

Exhibit DD:

Here is the truth as to why I detest boobs.

On a seemingly normal Thursday evening, I find myself in the produce section of my neighborhood grocery store. I am deciding which grapefruit to purchase, and a man comes up to me. Thinking that he’s in need of grapefruit, I politely step to the side.

He stares at me.

He stares at my boobs.

He gives the grapefruit a SMACK and says to me

“Well, there YOU go!”

and walks off.

Have I just been sexually harassed?

Attention humans! You are allowed to appreciate my boobs, but can you at least do it in a non- slime-ball manner? I really don’t mind if I catch you staring at my boobs; the truth is that I accidentally stare at men’s crouches ALL THE TIME.

The point is that when you find yourself overwhelmed with bodily beauty, be cognizant that you are interacting with a human being.

Show some respect.

Show a lot of respect because who knows, I might let you touch one.