A Layperson’s Psychological Take on Fake Breasts
Well it’s official; the average cup size has grown from a B cup to a whopping C cup. I am now a below average breasted female by not joining the ranks a of the big fake boob craze. I can live with that, but what I can’t live with is what I fear fake boobs mean.
What do they represent? Freedom to choose our own body parts? Self-esteem? Sexual confidence? Let’s take a step back for a moment, the fake boob craze first appeared in porn (which speaks volumes) and quickly filtered into the mainstream. I guess the idea was to look like a sexual diva in perpetual lactation mode. In short, it is the only way to have eternally youthful breasts no matter what else chooses to go south. Or is it something else? Big boobs simulate a nursing mother or in simple terms, a fertile woman capable of successful child-bearing, which indirectly brings men back, in a sexual way, to the loving comfort they received from their mothers. Do we really want to attract a guy who’s looking for his mommy?
When I think about how badly the feminist movement has back fired on women, I wonder, how equal pay turned into the fake breast frenzy. We went from, ‘We will wear no bra’s to defying gravity so we won’t need bra’s.’ Well, in some ways maybe we asked for it, not only do we want to compete with men, we want the armored breasts of steel to do it. Maybe women are the new men behaving like male birds who flap their wings to expand their chests in hopes of attracting potential mates. Or are we simply over-compensating for our newfound job opportunities, and our fake breasts are the booby prizes for finally letting us in the boys club. Like a silent scream that says, ‘I may not be Betty Crocker, but I can bring home the bacon and look like a porn star to make all your bedroom fantasies come true.’ Is that what we really want to communicate to our eligible bachelors? Or are we prostituting ourselves with augmentation because we fear we won’t attract a man without them or has it merely become an accepted protocol of keeping up with the Jones’ boobs?
At this point, I fear it’s become a form of permanent voyeurism, you can look, but you can’t touch. Or is it even a more hostile gesture, ‘You can’t avoid looking at me no matter what you do, you will notice me now even if you would have never looked twice at me before.’ So maybe we’re angry, it would be hard not to see fake breasts as anything other than passive aggression when you think about what they represent – Big protruding breasts standing at attention in your face yelling, ‘Here I am. What are you going to do about it?’
Most everything we do in our dating rituals is about procreation. We are hard-wired to behave this way so that we keep the planet populated, plain and simple. A man opens doors, gives gifts, and pays for dinner all to show that he is capable of protecting and providing for a woman and her unborn children. His attraction to a woman, and vice versa, is based on a chemical need to find a partner who is physically strong, which today may be replaced by financial strength, potent and fertile for the purpose of birthing strong healthy babies. That’s it, no less, no more. Our mating instincts may seem like they’re about picking someone active, successful, or loving, but again these attributes are all filtered through our basic mating instincts for picking the best man, within our available gene pool, with what we consider to be the best sperm.
It just seems to me like it’s a way to trick men, dangle a carrot and hope they’ll go for it, when honestly nothing spells insecure, needy and lacking in confidence like a large pair of globelike hooters that don’t sink into your armpits when you’re lying on the beach.
I understand, woman want to improve them selves, look better, and feel more confident, but I’m not sure if fake boobs are really getting women what they want. We all want to feel attractive in our own skin, to be wanted by the opposite sex, and to be free of any feelings of self-consciousness. I don’t know about you, but nothing would make me feel more self-conscious than to be carrying around the audacious knockers so many woman have gone under the knife to have. Living in Los Angeles with the eye-stopping prevalence of the augmented breast, I have fantasized about getting the boob job, but in reality I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live with what that said about me or give any more importance to the mammary glands than they deserve. For me, below average will just have to do.
