Not long ago I posted about feeling safe. Or more to the point, not feeling safe. And the knot that creates in my stomach. And so I've been over-thinking a whole lotta schtuff from the past and generalized observations about American culture/society in general. To be honest, I don't know if this stuff is limited to, because of, or even influenced by the 'American' part of the culture or not. I've never been submerged in any other culture.
But something that chaps my hide more and more as I age is the whole objectification of women. I know that in general (you) meaning a generalized MOST of the male population, and specifically NOT some of my dearest, nearest friends who are surprisingly enlightened (God bless your souls).... I know you don't MEAN any harm by objectifying women. nice boobs. nice ass. let me see your cleavage. "its meant as a compliment, really...." Yeah. Well, it's not a compliment. I have worked super hard on myself. Not showing my crazy to the world, not acting on every impulse I have, not being too proud to admit failure, or at least certain places where I need to improve. But my genes. I was just born with them. I am not in control of my cup size in any natural sense. And what if took control of my cup size? What if I took my destiny into my own hands and went under the knife and came out a B cup. You know, no-bra size. And then all you bitches that said how lucky I was to have back pain and uncivilized (and unsolicited) societal pain from being a large breasted woman (there, I just came right out and BREAST... not boobs, not knockers, not ta-tas, not titties), well, then the joke would be on you because I would have achieved something I covet. No-bra status. What I wouldn't give to have that option. But I'm no more in control (without the help of a surgeon) of my cup size than you are, you who are busy coveting and objectifying and telling me how fortunate I am to have pain (physically) and sorrow (not so much physically) of oversized fluffy marshmallow boobs. That's what I call them when they billow out of whatever size bra I put them into. There's almost always some piece of me marshmallowing out of the holder it was intended for. I would love to have my way with the people who design these articles of clothing that do very little to support and entrap my societal pariahs. You know, the assumption is (one of many), that I cannot be very intelligent since all that physical substance went into my chest, the God that made me wasn't smart enough to leave some matter for the brain area as well.
What's my point? I'm not sure I have one. I have many. But trying to sum it up in a singular purpose? Maybe that it just really isn't right or wrong, sexy or unsexy, to have large or small breasts. That my worth and my intelligence are not something you can see without getting to know me. I'm not more American, more Playboy Bunny, more Culturally-Iconic-Sex-Symbol because my genetics endowed me with more chest that what I ever wanted.
I'm pretty smart. I just wish people could see it. I am not my body. And... another post entirely... I am NOT dependent on a filter-system to make me smarter either. Sometimes (and only sometimes) I am sorry that I don't have a filter, but that is also not an indicator of intelligence or stupidity. It is just an indicator that I'm still learning impulse control and that as an intelligent person, I still have the option to learn more. and more.
No comments:
Post a Comment