I say, all hail boobs! I know what you're thinking. Oh, that Mariko, sex kitten extraordinaire and so-called feminist, is clearly a potty mouth, obsessed with her own cleavage. Let me assure you that, although the above may be true, it's not what this particular praise of boob-age is all about.
First let me say that I know there are people out there -- angry people -- who are tired of praising big boobs, who are, in fact, just plain tired of big boobs.
And who can blame them?
They walk around the city and they're bombarded. There are teenage girls with big boobs walking around in huge ankle-busting high heels. Women with bikini-clad big boobs are on vacation, cooking in the sun, and even secretaries with big boobs are out buying tank tops at the mall. They go home to escape, turn on the TV and see women on the LIFE Network getting big boobs, sometimes really big boobs, often awkwardly pointy big boobs.
"Pah! to big boobs," the angry people scoff. "Those big boobs have it easy."
But let me tell you, as the temperature rises, there's an army of women, size C-cup and bigger, who have a summer of sweaty under-boob, and the lesser known boob-rash, to look forward to. Those women could use a little support.
And not the kind you buy at the Bay for $24.99.
Because, despite the fact that big boobs admittedly receive an undue amount of praise and attention, the women who carry these big boobs are often overlooked. I know this because I myself have often been overlooked.
The odd time, for safety reasons, I have had to apply a little hand to chin action to remedy the situation, like once when it looked like my bank teller was going to loose his balance and fall in.
The thing that most people don't realize is that boobs -- soft, luscious and fabulous when properly displayed -- are actually a lot of work. This shouldn't be all that surprising. I mean, it's not like we can shuttle them around on little Victoria's Secret hovercrafts. We have to carry them, often using only flimsy lace and silk contraptions outfitted with cruel underwire. I'm at the point now where I'm considering lobbying to have underwire come with a safety warning (or at least a little padding on the tip). I'm no longer even shocked by the pain of having my underwire slip out of its sling and stab me in the pit. I try to make a game out of removing it, by pretending I'm a secret agent removing my spy-killing weapon.
I used to have a little scar from the time my underwire popped out and stabbed me in the pit in a movie theatre. Of course, I tried to leave it under my seat, but some well-meaning guy chased me out of the theatre trying to return it to me.
The scar nicely matches the little divits on my shoulders that I got from having my bra strap dig into my flesh.
And it doesn't help that TV shows like Baywatch make boob-jiggling runs look sexy and fun. You never see Pamela Anderson putting her arm across her chest when she scoots for the water. I'm afraid that if I don't hold my boobs when I run, they might hit someone in the eye.
Periodically, mind you, people will offer to hold them for you. But this is rarely any kind of permanent solution. Often I find this "offer" is not designed to be helpful. Sometimes people just want to play with them and they're not really interested in taking any burden off your shoulders. It's like when someone asks to look after your puppy but doesn't want to pick up the poop.
The thing our society must realize, and soon, is that we big-boobed women do not have to keep our boobs out and available for display. We could easily and drastically alter Toronto's horizon and it would only take two little words. Yes, that's right, "sports bra."
We could strap them down, and be more comfortable, too. We could all put on turtlenecks and buy cheap grandma no-boob bras -- so you'd better smarten up.
While we're throwing out huzzahs to the men and women who are looking after the garbage and trying to keep the city clean, let's send out some praise to the big-boobed women of Toronto, who are also doing their part to keep the city beautiful.