Full Frontal Assault With Both Barrels Blazing

The other night I had a fun and bawdy conversation on Twitter with one of my Twibe about which one of we two women had the biggest boobs. We sparred back and forth, in a light-hearted competition to out-do each other using larger and larger ridiculous comparisons as to the catastrophic world events from tornados and tsunamis to black holes that would occur when we remove the architectural engineering at night, with us eventually deciding to call it a draw and combine our super-heroic busts, standing back to back in our magnificence, ready to enact dominance over the world. It got me thinking - I’ve never been a flat-chested woman. Having big breasts is part of who I am. As a teenager and young woman, I used to hide them under baggy jumpers and large loose-fitting shirts. My default stance was with my shoulders hunched and my arms folded across my chest, squeezing my oversize (in my mind – in reality back then probably a 38C) boobage into my ribcage. One day I thought “what the hell” and imagined myself to be as cool as fuck in my black “Kings Of The Wild Frontier” t-shirt. That was until my dad saw me walking downstairs and said Adam Ant looked like he was chewing a caramel. Thanks Dad and after 30 years I still remember that.
My daughter has inherited my generous cleavage but hopefully with my support and that of pretty underwired lingerie she seems to be cool with it. I have empathy with my less amply-endowed sisters – my best friend was talking to me on the phone this morning about her joy in finding AA cup bras in Mark & Spencer – as much as I have with my equally wench-cleavaged ones. We find it far too easy to get caught up in what the media lays down – the small and gamine ironing boards of Keira Knightley one day, the overflowing curves of Christina Hendricks the next – both beautiful women in their own right but able to look that good only with a team of stylists that you and I can only dream of. Don’t kid yourself that these dictats come from the Gok Wans or the Don Drapers. The worse critics of our shapes are other women and we should stop doing it now and stop allowing other women to do it. There is more to us than what fills our bra cups and we should all be happy in the knowledge that however we are, our lovers will love us, boobs and all.
Having said that I am mystified with the women who make the conscious decision to compete with others to have the world’s largest boobs that are measured in treble figures and cup sizes. These breasts are not naturally large but are the result of repeated surgery and injections of ropes and ropes of silicon with these women going back time after time to be at the top of their game.
The current champion is one Crystal Charms who is a 164XX, closely followed by Maxi Mounds and Krystel Kleavage, with double Ms and double Ks and that’s not even close to their cup sizes. Wasn’t it clever and forward thinking of their parents to give them such apt names they seem determined to grow into? I’m being sarcastic if you haven’t guessed - it saddens me that in a world where women can be leaders of countries, astronauts and artists that this still receives more status.
Chelsea’s boobs are said to weigh the same as 2 watermelons. I wonder how she worked that out. Did she start off with 2 melons, then 2 coconuts and 2 pumpkins?
Did she go to her local ASDA and place first a piece of fruit then each breast onto the scale for comparison only have to explain to some poor wee teenage produce manager how she broke it? Or did she use the self-service checkout, only to hear “unexpected items in the bagging area”? And why do we feel the need to compare our breasts to fruit? I like to think it’s because they are succulent and not like some freakishly large onions or squash at an autumn garden show to be weighed, handled and judged. And why don’t men compete to have the largest testicles or penises? Let’s see them endangering their health to have the best plums, grapes or cucumbers!
Likewise, seeing women like Susanne Eman who at 52 stone and counting aims to be the world’s fattest woman. Am I the only one who is horrified by this? That some poor lass thinks that the only avenue open to her to be famous and make money to look after her children is to eat herself to what will inevitably be an early grave. I’m not a skinny wee skelf myself nor ever have been but there’s a huge chunk (pardon the pun) of difference in being happy with your weight if it tips over into the more luscious side. There are lots of beautiful women out there who are great role models for girls who don’t fit the heroin chic look such as Ruth Jones and Miracle Laurie but to deliberately stuff yourself to the size of a small planet is one waddling and wobbling step too far!
Of course, ultimately it’s their choice how they wish to be, as it is mine. After all, we are just and will end up being, flesh x