Collectively, we’re a weird bunch, us New Zealanders.
We’re obsessed with a game based around the world’s most stupidly shaped ball (seriously, have you ever had a go tossing a rugby ball round? First time I tried I nearly managed to hit my own face). We tend to answer every question with “Yeah, nah” before giving an actual answer. All our younguns flee our laidback lifestyle and gorgeous land for gritty concrete jungles. And on Budget Day, in the middle of a global financial crisis, the most read news story on our national news website concerns a lady complaining about her huge boobs.
I have a little sympathy for you, Julie Roulston. I’m sorry you think you look “like a plump milkmaid” and find clothes shopping difficult. But you clearly haven’t learned the rules of this game yet.
I’m not convinced there’s a woman alive who has always loved the way her breasts look. And those among us who have managed it do so not because they have perfect pillows – but because they’ve run out of fucks to give.
There’s no way to win, you see. Being short and slim, my ‘assets’ are on the small side. And I wasted so many years wishing I could be like you. Where you worry about looking top-heavy in dresses, I used to despair of looking “like a little girl playing dress-up in Mummy’s clothes”. I thought about getting a boob job, but realised many people complained about fake ones feeling “like plastic bags full of water” and pointing up at the ceiling in a weird, off-putting manner. Still others said real boobs only look good in a bra, and go droopy and flat once unleashed. Some said really big boobs are super gross anyway. Then there were the concerns about one being bigger than the other. About nipples that were too large, too small, too dark, too pale, too pointy, or not pointy enough, or pointing in the wrong direction.
Julie, ladies, just forget it. Seriously. Perfect boob beauty isn’t a moving target, it’s a target that doesn’t even exist. You’re cats chasing a laser pointer.