So today has proven interesting just by the slight fact that my white work-appropriate button-down shirt is unbuttoned until about halfway down because I’m wearing a low-collar summer dress underneath it (yes, I know it’s not summer anymore) but I also know that it feels like my boobs are looking at me. It’s one thing to catch someone staring at your boobs, and it’s another thing entirely for you to feel like your boobs are staring at you.
Everytime I look down, there is my cleavage staring monstrously up into my face. I don’t know what sort of reaction it wants. But I can tell you this much, I’ve never felt so anti-objectified in my life. They are pretty much like “We are boobs. We are pretty. Or at least mildly scintilliating. And titillating. What do you bring to the table?” And I am speechless. Because how do you one-up yourself? They are giving me a major inferiority complex and considering that my head is in the clouds today as is, it’s just not necessary. They are out of line, and I wish it could be something as simple as asymmetry but that would be the least of my worries.
photo courtesy of Sacred Garden Gallery
This conflict of interest between my torso and I wouldn’t be such a problem if there were not all this idle worship of breasts in society, as lovely as they are.