Wheel of Cleavage

Hooters… ta-ta’s… boobies… sweater puppies… or, as my husband has been known to call them – fun bags. Sighhhhhh. WHAT is our obsession with breasts? I mean, seriously – as a society, we seem to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at, critiquing, discussing, coveting or pining over women’s cleavage. I married a “tit man.” Sounds like a song, doesn’t it? “Ifffffffff I were a tit man… daidle deedle daidle…” Anyway… I know the first thing – well, THINGS – he looks at when a woman walks by or graces the television screen. Well aware of his particular affinity, I tend to point them out – just to gauge his reaction. I get a Victoria’s Secret catalogue in the mail and promptly search out the bra layouts. “Hey dear! Check out this set!” – and I’m not referring to the barely-there-yet-presumably-matching bras and panties. Walking through a store, I’ll remark “Those were nice, weren’t they? Next time you fart, be sure to catch your eyeballs!” Does he deny his interest? Pretend he wasn’t looking? Hell yeah. Do I believe him? Hell no. We have an understanding. Men are certainly not the only mammary manics these days, either. Women justify their jugs as works of art. They’re bought and paid for (or owned by the bank) so they intend to flaunt ‘em. Reality TV regularly thrusts them in our collective face, creating even greater feminine drive to the “high and tight.” Trust me – the military won’t mind sharing that term. They’ve bestowed many a “hooter HOOAH!” already. On a late-night dating show this week, where several women vie to be chosen by one available guy, a chick offered the whole group the chance to cop a feel – within minutes of meeting each other. She’d just gotten her boobs and wanted to show them off. Man… it’s like offering to let someone test drive your new car! At least one other woman took her up on the offer so the guy obviously thought he’d won the lottery. Speaking of “winning”… here’s what got me to thinking about all this. I read an item about a Canadian nightclub that just gave away a free pair o’ perkies! TV makeovers aren’t enough for us. Putting people under the knife of perfection isn’t adequately disturbing. 36 women, clad in tight dresses and mini-skirts, in a bar, tacked on their names and repeatedly spun the Wheel of Cleavage – my term, not theirs. They gradually eliminated each other until the one woman left standing took home the tits! She gets $3,000 to put towards implants. The other 35 drowned their sorrows and went home with their sagging self-esteem. Oh, and this event didn’t go uncontested. Mildred and her elderly gang from the “Holy Bible Movement” stood across the street, singing, dancing and banging a drum. They might have been more effective if they hadn’t headed home to bed long before the “Sextreme Makeover Competition” even started. Don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate a nice rack just as much as the next person and I’m straight as an arrow. I don’t intend to obsess over my own orbs but I will confess to Mildred that I’m definitely a member of my own “movement.” I’m hoping and praying that, in 15 or 20 years, they’ll still be worthy of the term “knockers” … but NOT for the sound they’ll make bouncing off my knees. And if I’m that fortunate? I’ll be standing across the street, singing, dancing and banging a drum!