May

24

Lampooned

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May 24, 2007

I read the comics section of the newspaper on a daily basis, and even though there are only a few I actually enjoy (Frazz [I am forgiving of its overbearing preachiness and heavy-handed swipes at all of us fat, lazy, non-bike-riding Americans], Betty, Lio, Monty, and Get Fuzzy, for the most part; although I should confess I’ve also been following For Better or for Worse for what seems like my entire life, even though it has long lost its appeal) I read every single one, including the vomitous Luann, and, of course, Family Circus, which is—say it with me—always down there in the corner, just waiting to suck.

Anyway, that’s my explanation for why I was reading today’s Cathy (because really: Cathy?), but I have to say, out of all of Cathy’s years of Aaaacks and dressing room woes and cookie-box confrontations, this strip is the first that made me think to myself, Ha! It’s funny because it’s true!

(Somewhat topical and legitimately humorous content in a Cathy cartoon, my god. Batten down the hatches, for surely the remaining six signs of the apocalypse are on their way.)

Oh, the blog overshare, where those of us who would never dream of discussing the size and shape of our breasts in a public setting feel entirely comfortable doing so online, stopping ourselves only at the last minute from including a bouncing, jiggling animated GIF for illustrative purposes.

What can I say, the benefits outweigh the lack of dignity. How else would I be able to connect with my fellow Chesty Van Boobertons, and be immediately endowed (har!) with fantastic sports-bra advice? I ask you.

Actually, I was thinking about the impact blogging has had on my life, and I can’t even begin to list all the positive outcomes. The friendships I’ve made, the conversations I’ve been a part of, the significance of being exposed to a diverse number of opinions and points of views . . . because of blogging, I live in a larger world than I would otherwise.

There’s also value in navel-gazing, to a degree. I’m not sure how useful it is to get lost in some endless loop of superficial self-analysis and documentation (I’m looking at you, Twitter) but I do know it’s been surprisingly helpful to write about the cruftier sections of my brain, because when you put things in words you are forced to deal with them. You have to process them, if you’ll forgive the term, and I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I say that dealing with things on a regular basis rather than constantly Swiffering them under your mental throw rugs will change your life for the better, in a million and one ways.

Also, if this blog hadn’t led to someone suggesting Turbo Jam, I never would have bought the DVD, the workout never would have been integral to me committing to a fitness routine, and I probably never would have dropped two dress sizes and developed actual tricep muscles for the first time in ten freaking years. Boo-fuckin-rah!

If it’s slightly ridiculous to be brimming with TMI behind the safety of my WordPress Create New Post window, well, SO MOTE IT BE. I accept the fact that I live in a 2007 Cathy World, where I not only reluctantly identify with the clichéd ill-fitting swimsuit freakouts, but the urge to rush home in order to document my cellulite in lurid detail on my BLOG.

:::

On a last meta-blogging note, I apologize if the widgets in the sidebar have been giving your browser the flimflams. They’re awesome in theory because I can display current entries from my other websites without manually adding links each time I update, but there seems to be something about that little chunk of Flash code that pisses off some web browsers. I have no idea why, so I have no idea how to fix it, but let me know if it’s doing anything awful like triggering crashes, kicking your dog, adding Showgirls to your Netflix queue, etc.

May

22

In praise of the flatlands

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May 22, 2007

I hate big boobs and I can not lie.

Not your boobs, of course. Your personal boobs are magnificent! They’re so . . . rotund and regal! In fact, those suckers should be gracing the front of a Viking ship somewhere.

I’m talking about MY boobs, which have not reduced in size the same way some of my other, more cooperative body parts have in the last couple months. I realize that smaller breasts are not normally a desired side effect of dieting, but in my case I had fervently hoped to streamline my cup size, if only a little.

But no. They have perhaps succumbed even more to gravity (soon enough I’ll simply be scooping them off the goddamn floor when I get dressed in the morning), but the volume levels remain the same.

You know what? I’d like to wear a t-shirt without looking like I’m auditioning for a job at Hooters. I’d like to wear a button-down shirt that neither looks like a potato sack nor offers that tantalizing peekaboo gap between the third and fourth button. I want a bra that doesn’t include enough underwire to trigger an airport security alarm, and doesn’t appear to have been designed by a nun moonlighting as a structural engineer.

And . . . and I want to jog without having to hog-tie my chest into submission ahead of time! I’d like to experience the elusive thrill of the spaghetti strap! When I’m cold, I don’t want to have to do that awkward crossed-arms thing, to prevent my nipples from painfully poking out the eyeballs of innocent passersby!

I want small boobs, by god. Like a B cup. Enough to smash into cleavage with the right bra, not too much to get away with those ‘built-in shelf’ tank tops.

Oh, what might it be like, living in a world where your breasts don’t drag through the spaghetti sauce during dinner? Where your bra tag doesn’t read “Hoisted N’ Matronly: the Comfort Fit“? I fantasize about an unfettered, bouncy lifestyle, with elaborate champagne spillings (oops! Tee hee) and sunset horse-gallopings; where I’m free to run along the beach in slow motion, Baywatch-style . . . without a wayward boob flying back and smacking me in the face.

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