I was born on the day before Independence Day, 1982, without a sweet-ass rack.
I have survived, so far, and I lead a relatively normal life.
But there's no getting around the fact that breasts, and their relative size, are a defining characteristic when it comes to women. Along with makeup, crying, and a certain shyness regarding flatulence. As an otherwise-apparent woman almost completely lacking in melons, I've often felt that I'm missing an essential part of the "womanly experience." What would change if I had them? How much more woman would I be? Would I finally develop a passion for body jewelry, very long telephone conversations, and using the word "passion"?
More crucially, how much uninvited public fondling am I missing out on? For example, I've never received the classic greeting in which a man shakes his head vigorously between a woman's god-given pectoral protrusions, like an outboard motor plunged between two quivering Jell-O molds. My therapist says I should let that one go.
Molestation fantasies aside, my absence of fun bags has led to a lifelong desire to understand them. And as Gandhi once said, "To live a day in the heaving bazooms of another is to see life through their areolae."
So let's imagine I have magically grown a set of perfect, luscious boobies. Great nipples, pert but not too large, and definitely NOT those weird Tootsie Roll–style pointers (gross). My fictional titties are also of relative heft, because those are the ones, through market research and staring, I have learned are the most favored.
The average DD knocker weighs eight pounds, according to my keen ability to estimate mass via Google image search. In total, that's an extra 16 pounds now on my frame. Further calculations show that this is roughly equal to a sack of 11 Chipotle burritos or 36 newborn baby dachshunds, which are now swinging jauntily from, slumping off, or standing suspiciously erect upon my chest, depending on my age and my proximity to Los Angeles.
This new addition feels odd for a few reasons.
For one, I am now having to stuff what amounts to 64 snack-size pudding cups into my shirt. And there is no "petite" or "plus" equivalent for women with gigantic honkers but not gigantic everything else. How can a flat-fronted girl like myself and this version we're now picturing with sensuous lady-buoys be expected to wear the same trendy-casual fashion tops?
You're thinking: This is where cleavage comes in. That which cannot get shoved inside must go up.
Let us contemplate cleavage, or the buttocks-shaped object now on my anterior. Cleavage. Man, woman, casting agent—who can but succumb to its charms? When I see breast pressed upon breast, even I want to nestle into those soft hillocks. Which I now know (theoretically) feel like the inside of a new fleece sweatshirt and smell faintly of powdered doughnuts.
What seems to have conversely degraded in appeal is everything above my neckline, which no one looks at when you have harness- requiring mam-mountains. This seems advantageous for those without good looks, or faces. Think of how much I'll save on eye shadow and face insurance.
It's time to try moving in these puppies. Let's start with a light jog. The baby dachshunds, divided into two balloons tied around my neck (18 apiece), swing in an agitated variety of directions with each step.
Seriously, this feels crazy. How do people look at anything else when this is happening? I'm surprised there are only several hundred thousand car accidents (per annum) in this country.
All right, you say. You've had your fun with the pretend love-pillows, but if you're really curious—why don't you just get them?
I've considered it, to be honest. Paying someone to make you irresistibly attractive is much easier than writing for a living. The financial security of elderly perverts is a comfort. And these unsolicited offers for jobs I'm grossly underqualified for are certainly another, um, perk.
In the end, despite credit cards, a flesh-cans fascination, and unreliable self-esteem, I've decided that voluntarily hacking at delicate tissue meant to supply nutrients to my future newborn child in the interest of inserting pouches of jelly that have a 69 percent chance* of exploding (EXPLODING!) inside you is one of those things in life that just gives me the willies, like bugs with too many legs.
And so, in conclusion, imagining having a sweet-ass rack was cool and fun. However, I don't think I'll mourn it too much, mostly since I imagined it.
But the homeless dudes casually jerking off on the light rail while staring at my imaginary jiggle-cannons—those guys, I'm really going to miss.
Shirley Hendrickson is, first and foremost, a woman and, secondly, a copywriter at Creature, a Seattle advertising agency. She sincerely apologizes to her mother for the publication of this article.