Breasts Are On The Menu

Breasts aren’t usually a discussion topic for me. Mostly because I am not blessed with them so I’ve always relied on brains or snark or something else to propel me forward. Am I jealous–some days. I think it might be fun to take on a breathy voice, let my bosom enter the room first and watch men faint dead away and buy me cocktails. Breasts surfaced as conversation this week with Christina Hendricks’ endless droning that hers get all the attention.

It was after the Emmys. She brought the girls out for public display on the red carpet, again, and then got miffed when they stole the show. At recent press gatherings, members were warned “not to ask any questions about her breasts.” An interview a few days later elicited her latest comment. “I think calling me full figured is rude,” she sniffed.

Christina, dear, might we suggest you seem a bit bristly concerning your beautiful twins considering your choice to bring them to the playground so very often. Your dress at the Emmys left little to the imagination. Your abundance overflowed. And you’re prickly because someone noticed? Girl, make up your mind–you’re proud of those puppies or you’re not. If you’re not, for God sake put them away and put us tiny breasted girls out of our misery.

We first met Christina on Mad Men and we adore Joan. Joan wears her rack proudly and is in on the joke. Joan’s wardrobe, one of the best both on and off television, never belies the fact that substance exists under that dress, but the girls are covered. A nod to Janie Bryant, costume designer for the show. Not only does she manage a spot on re-creation of the era but she designs one hell of a ready-to-wear set at Banana Republic. Next showing is at holiday time–got the scoop yesterday! All the fashionista throwbacks have a dress or two. Or six. After some investigation, I found Ms. Bryant to be regular breasted woman. This would beg the assumption that dressing Joan, aka Christina, might be difficult, given Christina’s whining about the inordinate attention given her mammaries, no? Somehow Janie manages. The twins have only made televised appearances in baby doll nighties and robes, places they might be found on any given day. Miss Christina, on the other hand, brings them out to play at every opportunity. As to finding the term full-figured rude, what would you have us call you dear? Curvy, round, bodacious, fat? You are a full-figured woman.

Here’s the definition: thick hips, rounded backside and large breasts. Check, check, check. Full figured does not constitute overweight. In fact, full figured girls can wear just about anything and make the choice when to show off assets and when to keep them hidden. Usually, a full figured girl is a size 12 or above. I know Miss Hendricks claims to be an eight but if that girl is an eight I’m the Duchess of York. Please. And at five-foot-eight, what do we label her? Diminutive?

Those of us gifted only with the big hips, large thighs and outsized asses are not shedding tears over what you see as an unfortunate label doll. We missed out on our fair share of the ta-tas. In the real world we’re just called “fat.” Or “frumpy, dumpy or out of shape.” Somehow we miss out on YSL draping us in coveted fabrics cut precisely to our bodies alleviating the need to cut out the tag as a reminder that we no longer rock the size six of our youth because we birthed three ten-pound babies and have jobs that don’t work around personal trainers, not that we can afford them. Bitch.

The divine Miss Hendricks refused to answer the question when the reporter referred to her as full figured. The reporter asked again and still Miss Hendricks was mute. And again. And then afterward she told everyone, in her most breathy voice, how awful it was to be treated so rudely. Oh poor girl. It is truly hard to make a living having people interview you about your occupational accomplishments when the rest of us are teaching children to read, feeding the hungry and making sure kids don’t drop out of school. Being forced to walk the red carpet after someone did your hair and makeup and made a dress just for you, all without any out of pocket on your part must be pure misery. Or to be a working actress on one of the smartest television series in a long while can’t be anything less than torture. How do you stand it dear? I am weeping at your burden.

It’s not that boobs offend me. I live in Scottsdale. I have the only nonprofessionally crafted pair in Maricopa County. It’s basic manners. Breasts, out of captivity, don’t belong out in public. They belong at your anniversary dinner with your husband and at charity fundraisers. And for God sake, if you choose to put them on display, don’t be offended when someone sneaks a peek. And for all my boob girls, I know they aren’t always a treat to lug around. They’re heavy. Your bra straps dig into your shoulders. They don’t fit nice and neat into all your blouses. And you get cat calls. Kind of like the ones us less endowed girls grew up with, like Flatsy, Pancake Chest and Mosquito Bite.

No, having breasts on the menu is not the problem. If you choose to purchase, wear them proudly. If you choose to show them off, man up and revel in the attention. And Christina, dear, take a lesson from our dear Joan. Rock whatever you’ve got and laugh your way to success girlfriend. Kick ass bitches don’t whine. Spilt milk is the least of our problems.