How Boobs are Destroying the World

Here’s another entry for the “Most Likely to Spawn Naughty Adsense” section, surely to net me a truckload of disappointed, angry pervs who only came here because it contains the term “ginormous breasteses”  and a few dick jokes, and an email account full of angry women who will accuse me of betraying my gender and being totally full of myself.

Thing is, dear fellow women, that this rant is mostly aimed at you, anyway.  Yes, you.  

But Sandra, what the hell did I do and why are you talking to me in a blog post about boobs? 

I’m glad you asked.

Because if you’re one of those women who mumbles nasty words under your breath when another pretty woman walks into the room, or if you talk shit about your gal pal behind her back because the green eyed monster rears its ugly head and snarls radioactive loogies every time she’s around, get bent. 

If you’re not one of those women, hit me up, we can totally be friends.

Because, see, if you’re my friend and you walk into the room looking like a rock star, I’m going to tell you that you look like a rock star, and dammit, I’m going to mean it.

 

Though, not always a good thing…

If I don’t know you and you walk into a bar and one look at your ass makes me regret skipping cardio this last week (*cough* couple of months *cough, cough*), I’m not going to hate you and shoot laser beams at you with my eyes every time you’re not looking - I’m going to admire the fact that you’re either a freak of genetics or diligent enough to make it to the gym, unlike me, who totally believes that a new season of Walking Dead on Netflix is a completely legitimate reason to stay home and embrace the chub.

For all the bitching that women do about being objectified and having to conform to an unrealistic ideal of beauty that men set, the truth is, it’s not the men who set those standards.  While all men have different tastes and specific things that will attract them to specific women, the most basic physical attributes that make a woman “doable” in a man’s eyes pretty much boil down to:

•  Boobs (any shape, any size, so long as they’re attached to a woman and, if they’re especially drunk, possibly a chubby dude); 
• Vagina; 
• Not formerly a man (see above); 
• Breathing.

Women’s criteria are far more harsh - and by golly, if you happen to be especially pretty (ie: you don’t roll out of bed looking like something out of a horror movie, like most of us do), endowed, or extraordinary in ANY. Possible. Way. – other women are going to hate you, and they’re going to come up with any number of imaginary reasons why your attractiveness can’t possibly be natural or normal.

Skinny?  You must be on drugs.  

Big boobs?  Fake.  

Confident?  Soooo full of yourself.  

Friendly?  Whore.  

Blond?  Mo-ron.  

Capable of holding a legitimate conversation about anything that has to do with mathematics, physics, or anything “brainy”?  Lesbian, and a TOTAL showoff.  

Legs that go all the way to your neck?  Clearly, your mother had an affair with a giraffe and you’re not suitable for mating with any male of the human species. 

For God's sake, Carl, have you NO standards?  She's hideous! And probably has fleas!

Thing is, it’s not my fault that I skipped straight over training bras and went straight to bad-porn-ridiculous-boob job sized breasts, on top of a waist that isn’t entirely suitable for being part of an actual human body and hips that were child-bearing size before I even hit puberty.  In the fifth grade.  Have you met my mother?  If you had, you’d know those genetics are impossible to dodge.

It’s also not my fault that the male brain is hard-wired to hone in on boobs and is rendered completely useless in their presence.   You heard that right, ladies, I’m built like a goddam cartoon, but it’s rare that I can hold an actual intelligent conversation with a man, and that’s only if their wife/girlfriend lets them come within a 20 mile radius of me.   God has a sick sense of humor, what can I say?

I don’t think I’m especially attractive, I only know because some men become cavemen in my presence (which I think is pretty typical so long as there’s a vagina present)

I feel a disturbance in the force.

...and I get plenty of the aforementioned eyeball-laser beams from some women.  There seems to be this idea these days that you have to be pretty – but not too pretty – and confident – but not too confident – and take pride in your body – but… eh, you get the idea.  It’s like a group of perfectly beautiful but insecure women got together one day and decided that the only women they wouldn’t consider a threat would be women that they could easily pick apart and deem less intelligent, attractive, and desirable than them.  The only one of those attributes that is acceptable in a female friend is intelligence, as long as she's not also pretty. If you're pretty, you have to be dumb as a rock so that you won't know when your friends are laughing at you.  I would attach a pie chart to show which attributes are acceptable in which combinations, but dammit I'm lazy and I'm pretty sure you all know what I'm talking about, anyway. 

 Also, if you have any curves at all, that shit needs to be completely concealed.  

Gah, some women are such attention whores!

To be clear, it’s not like I’ve never been possessed by the snarling, poop-throwing spirit of the envy troll.  Being human, and female, and occasionally hormonal, I’m just as guilty at growling less than complimentary pet names under my breath in regards to another woman. 

The thing is, I realized that, unless some chick just walks up and starts humping my significant other’s leg right there in front of everyone, what am I really mad at her for?  Because my man looks at her?  She’s pretty, why wouldn’t a straight, healthy man look at a pretty woman?  If his eyes linger a little too long, that’s something I need to take up with HIM, no?  

Because she fills out that sweater or pair of jeans out better than I would?  Because obviously, she was the one shoving taquitos down my throat when I wasn’t crying about Lori dying during childbirth.

Don't try to act like I was the only one who looked like this when Lori finally kicked it.  

So basically, I was mad because she was breathing.  Right?  Or maybe I felt so badly about myself that I had to blame someone else for how badly I felt, so the obvious choice was the pretty woman who had just happened to walk into my line of sight at the exact moment that I was thinking about how my stomach had never pooched over the top of my jeans like that before, or how uncomfortable I was because my size 7s were no longer my “fat” jeans.

So ladies, my point is, we aren’t really each other’s enemies.  Sure, there is always that one chick that thinks the world revolves around her and her botoxed, perfectly tanned and groomed ass, and who thinks it’s perfectly fine to blatantly flirt with obviously taken men, and those women deserve to be punched in the throat.  With a stiletto.

...or Eggo-faced with a tennis racket, whatever.

The rest of us, however, are living in the same boat with the same insecurities and the same personal demons, and if we go to the club looking especially dressed up or made-up, it’s because we want to feel good about ourselves, not because we’re looking to be eye-fucked by every dude in the place or because we want to make any other women feel like total lumps.  Odds are, that chick you’re silently face-peeling in your head is probably seeing you and feeling just as insecure because something about YOU makes HER feel inferior.

Give other women a break.  Give yourself a break.  When it comes to male criteria, you're perfect, we all are.  Men don't care how much your makeup cost or whether your handbag is designer, they're happy if you just let them play with your boobies once in a while.  Bonus if you're willing to touch their brain penis.  When it comes to female criteria, we're all crazy, so there's never going to be a perfect balance between potato fart and drop-dead gorgeous, why the hell are you measuring yourself against other women?  Stop it.