Who Needs Boobs, Anyway?

All the women in my family are genetically gifted. My mother, at 76, can do nine loads of laundry, mow the lawn, sling a weed-eater for five hours, hoe the garden, paint the bedroom, cook Chicken Kiev, balance her checkbook, and give herself a manicure, all with a perfectly made-up face—and all in the same day! If you gave her a cape and ray gun, the woman could rule the world.  Ditto, for her sisters. They snow ski, water ski, ride horses, repair gutters, build houses, shoot guns, and pilot planes. They are immaculately groomed when they run to the store, and you can eat off their floors. Obviously, I was adopted.

By the time I’ve crawled out of bed every morning, made coffee, and gotten my daughter and myself out the door, I’m ready for a nap. I need a break halfway through the dishes, and since I’ve never mastered the art of organization, it’s not uncommon to find a bottle of lost Downy in the refrigerator. On a good day, my house could be featured on “Hoarders.” Make-up just feels too much like major surgery, and shaving usually requires some sort of razor, which I can never find. (It’s probably in the toy box with the dryer sheets).  It’s not that I’m lazy. I just have no stamina. I never have.

I’ve studied the phenomenon of those hyper-energetic, over-achieving ladies in my clan, as well as more than a few of my friends similar to them, in an effort to discover what they have that I don’t. I’ve made charts, pondered graphs, and looked into backgrounds. My findings are disturbing.  What I’ve concluded is that they all have boobs, and by “boobs,” I mean large ones. I have none, and by “none,” I mean none.

I even delved into my not-too-perfect past, and a sad journey it was, only to learn that throughout my life, it was always the girls with boobs who triumphed. It started in junior high. The girls with boobs had more friends, seemed to be better liked by teachers, excelled in sports, and generally seemed on top of the world.  Boys who’d treated them with disdain only a year earlier, suddenly developed a raging fascination for the girls with boobs. They followed them around like pop-star groupies, bug-eyed, falling over their own feet because they kept forgetting to look down.

It only got worse in high school.  There were no try-outs for cheer-leading back then. Cheerleaders were elected by popular vote, so you can imagine who got picked for the squad: girls with boobs. They were also the ones elected to home-coming princess, head majorette, pep squad leader, and prom queen. They had tons of friends, got their pictures in the local newspaper, and dated only the best-looking boys who played sports and drove flashy cars. Only the cream of the crop for girls with boobs!

They always seemed to be on the go, running here and there, cheering, hand-springing, pumping their pom-poms, fundraising, buying the latest fashions for the next school dance. You never saw girls with boobs when they weren’t in a hurry in the hallways, flanked by the hangers-on as they rushed to class or some meeting. So much energy!

The non-boob girls were the ones in band or science club, the quiet ones wearing headbands and glasses, listening to Hendrix and Joplin. We attended classes, usually sitting in the back, and tried to avoid the leers of the tuba players. We went stag to our Junior Prom, spent our weekends reading and trying out new shampoos, and lived inside our own heads. The non-boob girls stuck together. There were two of us.

Naturally, after graduation, girls with boobs went on to become women with boobs. They were the ones who married the best looking men with money, bought houses with sun porches, decorated living rooms that qualified for Better Homes and Gardens, bore the academically gifted children, and ran around organizing committees. For every single accomplishment I managed, women with boobs could pull off ten.

Having lived my life in the shadow of women with boobs, I’ve considered changing my circumstances so that I, too, can be a whirlwind of success. Times are certainly different than they once were. In the old days, women with boobs were stereotyped as blonde bimbos and unfairly assumed to be not as bright as their dark-haired counter-parts. Not so, these days. Now, women with boobs are quite likely to be brunette and highly intelligent. Even more astounding, highly intelligent, brunette women with boobs, can get rid of their boobs. And, last but not least, women with no boobs can buy boobs.  Not long ago, a non-boob friend of mine said, “I’m thinking of getting a boob-job. I believe it would make me look better and feel better about myself.”

I pondered her statement for many days. Having boobs makes you look better and therefore feel better about yourself? I just wanted to have more energy. If boobs can’t do that for me, I think I’ll just continue looking for the Downy, listening to Hendrix, wearing my headband…with no boobs.