Thanks for the mammaries

Thanks for the mammaries | Kathy Lette

As the mammogram nurse squished my breast between two cold slabs, I cried out as if in the Inquisitioner’s torture dungeon.

“The trouble is, your breasts are sitting very close to your chest,” she commiserated.

“I’m choosing to translate that as ‘perky,’” I relayed to a friend later.

She gave me a look. “You’ve breast fed two children. There is only one interpretation… But you’re lucky. I hate my big boobs.”

How many times have I had this conversation? Is any woman content with her breast size? Big want to be small. Small want to be big. And is it any wonder? I mean, breasts are the only part of our anatomy which go in and out style. In the past century alone, fashion has dictated that women ricochet from the ironing-board chests of the ’20s; to the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder sweater girls of the ’50s; to the Twiggy human-toothpaste-tube look of the ’60s; to the Pamela Anderson aerodynamic twin engines of the ’80s; to the Kate Moss bee-stings of the ’90s; to the tethered zeppelins of Kim Kardashian.

Imagine if the male anatomy was prone to such fashion fads? ‘Well, boys, this season it’s small appendages. We want them lopped and chopped.’ Then, ‘Gee boys, the new look is BIG. We want them long and strong. It’s penis implants and the “Wonder Y”.

In the last year alone, breast trends have gone from ‘side boob’ to ‘under boob’. Imagine men’s bits becoming similarly accessorized. I mean, Brad Pitt isn’t on the red carpet saying “I couldn’t decide between showing a bit of side testicle or maybe just a flash of ball crease and bit of dickage.”

As a teenager, my cups did not runneth over. To B Cup or not to B cup, that was the question. “I must, I must increase my bust” exercises, trainer bras, wonder bras – so called because when you take them off, you wonder where the hell your breasts went…

One of the most humiliating moments of my life involved a silicone gel insert. During an over-zealous disco maneuver, one of the chicken fillets popped out. It plopped onto the ground like a stranded jellyfish. Everyone stopped and stared at the quivering silicone pouch lying at my feet.

“Um… Would you believe it’s a stress-relieving, squeezy executive toy?…” I suggested.

But in my early 30’s, my Barbie fantasy became a reality. Once pregnant, my bosom developed with polaroid speed. Suddenly my mammary were so huge they needed their own radio transmitter so they could report back to the rest of my body on weather conditions up ahead. I should have taken up a career as ‘weather girl’ as all I needed to do was simply turn sideways to the camera and say

“Bold front approaching.” Basically, my breasts were as big as a twin garage and every man I met wanted to double park in that particular erogenous zone.

… So, why wasn’t I enjoying it? The trouble was, men had stopped talking to me. Oh, their mouths opened and words came out, but it was all addressed to the third button on my blouse. Suddenly my only depth was in décolletage. Eventually, I’d glance down and growl, ‘Hey, when the three of you are through, let me know, okay?’

Breasts do a great job, nourishing the species. A round of applause for all boobs. So, let’s just learn to love the ones we have and stop trying to make mountains out of mole hills… and vice versa. Oh, and maybe invent a mammogram machine that doesn’t squish you flat. If blokes had to undergo “ball-ograms” I doubt they’d put up with having them squashed in a vice. Forget smoking and drinking – that’s the vice women want to give up.

And if you want to raise your spirits, then do come along and have a few laughs at my little Girls’ Night Out show, in Sydney on November 1st and Melbourne on the 4th.

See you there for some fun and frivolity!

Date: Friday, 1 November 2019 @ 8:00pm
Venue:  Seymour Centre
Tickets: Click here or call Seymour Centre Box Office 9351 7940

Date: Monday, 4 November 2019 @ 8:00pm
Venue: Athenaeum Theatre
Tickets:  Click here or call Ticketek 132 849

Tickets and more information here.

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