i have to rant about this, it’s driving me crazy.
I am a woman of some physical substance, i’ll freely admit to that. but in that vein, i’m also very (very) curvy.
which is all fine and good. i’m beginning to learn to enjoy my womanly virtues, yes, even at my size, they can be considered virtues, while still working on improving my health.
i’ll even admit to owning a few bewb shirts, as they were so eloquently called in ‘must love dogs’.
but damn, really, just because i’m wearing one (aforementioned bewb shirt), does NOT give you the right to spend our entire conversation with your eyes bolted to my decolletage.
i find that this happens in conversations at work, at kids sporting events, anywhere where i’m wearing anything other than a t-shirt.
i’ve just about had enough. i spent an entire meeting today with two sets of eyes rapidly flitting just below the horizon and back again. a few weeks ago, my new boss came to my desk and while i was sitting and he was standing, the entire farging conversation was spent with me vacilating between, ‘do i laugh at his obvious staring’ and ‘ ohmigawd, i can’t believe he’s so openly doing that’. i wimped out and didn’t say anything, feeling all the more sleezy. before i go on, let me just clarify that this very obviously just isn’t about me. how many of us have had to watch your conversational counterparts eyes drift downward and stop, ever so delicately 6 inches below your neck, and then very rapidly move back to your eyes, only to act as though nothing happened. you can be honest, i know it’s happened to you, too. I have a very, very cute co-worker who can be downright sexy when she wants to be. she is also incredibly, fantabulously good at her job. but you can see the eyes of other co-workers looking her up and down when she walks by. it’s damn near infuriating, to me anyway.
why do guys think that this is ok? worse even, why do they think we are so dense that we either can’t see it or won’t say anything? (well, i didn’t say anything, but you get my point, right?)as brave as I pretend to be, I can’t even begin to imagine what to actually say to a co-worker or an acquaintance ogling the goodies. (if you have suggestions, lemme know, puhlease.)
really. do you think we can’t see that? honestly? like all women haven’t had to spend their lives dealing with being objectified to the point that we all recognize that look when we see it. and boys, yes, we do see it. we do, in fact, notice when you start mouth breathing, go all slack-jawed and the vacuous stare encroaches upon your whole face, nay, your entire being. shocking, i know, but the small portion of our brains that can function independently of our bewbs can actually reason and... AND put 2 and 2 together.
part of me wants to say, seriously guys, i’ve nursed 5 kids. without a good bra, the girls head south for the winter.even in the summer. keep it moving, nothing to see here, nothing to see.
is the fascination with breasts so great that they can’t even stop staring, right in the face of the object of their pseudo-affection? at what point it is not okay to ogle a woman in public? at what point does the respect of a job well done replace the desire to barely contain the drool collecting at the corner of your lip?
don’t get me wrong, i don’t mind when someone respectfully admires me. i think the female form is incredibly beautiful. there’s an art to the way it moves. but please, please, for all that is sacred and holy in the world, it is NOT okay to gawk at any woman over coffee in the break room. at the very least, if you’re gonna gawk, please make an attempt at being artful and discreet.
at what point must we sacrifice femininity to protect the girls from the scandalous glances we may or may not receive depending on the day’s attire? is a burqa the new black? must we have sister mary francis approve our clothing and give us an 18-inch ruler for personal space measurements before we leave the house anymore? maybe i’m just missing the boat and it’s de rigueur to be openly transfixed by the sight of a woman’s bosom.
i’m seriously to the point of attempting to flex my seemingly alluring pectorals, one after the other, like bodybuilders do, the next time i catch someone’s gaze drifting south of my hazel peepers.