You're the TITS - they call 'em BOOBS for a reason

I got my first training bra in the second grade. I remember feeling very self-conscious. I was already a year younger than all the other kids in Miss Naso’s class, or Sister’s class for that matter. We had moved to Eastern Pennsylvania from Western Pennsylvania and the cut off date to start kindergarten had been earlier in Wester Pennsylvania. When I noticed the little bumps starting to protrude under my T-shirt in gym class one day I was shocked. I, along with all my classmates (girls on one side boys on the other) were sitting on the high-waxed wooden gymnasium floor of Saint Catherine of Sienna elementary school in Reading, PA, cross-legged following the gym teacher in a rhythm stick exercise having lots of fun. The different sounds the sticks made depending on how and where you thumped them was satisfying and beautiful, especially in a group. The sound patterns were soothing and exciting at the same time sending light reverberations through my body making everything bounce. I noticed a funny new bounce under my school issued gym uniform T-shirt and looked down to see the start of something that would change my life forever. Boobs.

For the rest of the day I checked the front of my light blue butter-fly collar button-down blouse under my blue, green, red and yellow tartan jumper to see if they were still there or if I had been imagining them. They were still there. I looked at the other little girls in my class, all of whom were at least an entire year older than me to see if I could discern the same of their chests. I couldn’t. The only other boobs in the room were on Miss Naso, albeit small ones. I thought Miss Naso was very pretty and my Mom had boobs and so did my Grandmothers and Aunts. They were all pretty to me too, so I decided boobs weren’t so bad, except none of my class mates had any and I knew how the other girls and boys were about those things. In the school yard, jumping rope on the macadam the older girls’ boobs bounced and sometimes the older boys chased them. One boy had even snapped a girl’s bra once and been sent to Sister Del Rey’s office by Sister Mary Anthony. Everyone talked about it for a week. And one time, in the girl’s room I watched as a fifth grade girl folded some paper towel and tucked it in her shirt. She scowled at me and made me promise not to say anything, as if there was anyone who was going to listen to what I had to say about such things anyway. So…I went home that day after gym class and told my Mom about my boobs.

My Mom looked at me with her arms crossed across her chest and told me to come closer so she could see, telling me I was far too young to have boobs yet. I thought so too, but there they were. Even my Mom couldn’t deny it. She pulled my t-shirt tight behind my back to be sure and told me to bounce on my toes a little. They jiggled ever so slightly like tablespoons of jello. She sighed and let my t-shirt fall loose again telling me we would make a trip to Penny’s or Boscov’s that weekend. I went to bed that night worried my nipples might offend Jesus in some way. The next day we would switch rooms with Sister’s class so she could teach us our every-other-day Religion and handwriting lessons and Miss Naso could teach the other second grade class Math and Science. That weekend I got my first bra - two tiny lightly padded triangle patches with shoulder straps and two hooks in the back. Wearing it made me feel like an old lady. I wondered if Sister wore a bra too. I was sure Miss Naso did. I saw the outline of her strap once under a light weight blouse she had worn, but Sister’s Habit was thick and wool and you could hardly tell if she had a body let alone wore a bra. Plus the Sisters frequently walked with their hands tucked in the long front folds of their Habit if they weren’t saying Rosary.

It didn’t take long for the other girls to notice and start talking about me. The next week, when we changed for gym class they saw me wearing my bra and the whispering started. I only had one friend, Kirsten Tranovich, and she was absent that day and I hadn’t even told her about the bra yet. So I was totally alone wearing my bra. By lunch the boys had heard about it and were walking past my seat in the lunch room with their milk cartons moo-ing at me. Later that day Miss Naso made John Healy stand in the corner for moo-ing in class. I don’t know if she knew what the moo-ing was about, but I did and so did everyone else. It was humiliating.

As I got older, the boob issue got worse. Girls were jealous and mean, boys made dumb jokes, and adults were even worse. In fifth grade my boobs were lopsided, not an unusual thing for budding breasts. Puberty is awkward. One of my boobs was a B cup and one was a C cup. Finding bras that fit was a challenge. My Mom finally found some stretch lace bras that fit both my boobs but they didn’t come in white or nude. They only came in blue, black, pink, and red. My Mom opted to get me the blue and pink, saying I was too young for red or black undergarments. I was just happy to have bras that fit. In gym class we were playing floor hockey. By this time I was no longer attending Parochial school. We had moved again and now I was attending Ringing Rocks Elementary in Pottstown, PA. We didn’t have a gym uniform, but were required to wear “gym-appropriate” clothes on gym day. On this particular day I was wearing Keds, a pair of jean shorts and a white t-shirt emblazoned with a giant smiley face and the words: Don’t Worry Be Happy. Bobby McFerrin’s song was a mantra of mine, being the kind of kid that was frequently picked on and bullied. My pink bra was in the wash so I was wearing the blue one. I guess you could see it through my t-shirt. When I got home my Mom was very mad and asked me if the gym teacher (I can’t remember his name but I can picture his face) had said anything rude to me that day. I told her he hadn’t. Evidently he was looking at my boobs and noticed I was wearing a blue bra and had called home to ask my Mom if she really thought it was appropriate for me to be wearing colored bras at my age. My Mom was enraged and asked him if he thought it was appropriate for a man his age to be looking at and commenting on the bras of girls my age. I was nine. Remember, I was at least a year younger than all my class mates. She and my Father discussed the matter in an agitated manner and I ran to my room and cried. Earlier that month I had gotten my first period in class while wearing my favorite little white shorts and was sent to the nurse’s office while all the kids in class laughed. The next day girls in the class had started a rumor that I had gotten my period because I was having sex. Now this.

Over the years my boobs have changed in size depending on my weight and the time of the month. Once my boobs reached a D cup size they never got any smaller than that. Presently my bras ranges between an H and a K. I’m not a giant fat woman, but I’m not a skinny mini either. My boobs are natural and difficult to miss and no matter how I am dressed (or not dressed) they get stared at by everyone. It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it and I understand natural boobs the size of mine on someone who isn’t circus-lady fat are unusual. Most women with boobs as big as mine have saline or silicone or some such artificial thing implanted…and I just don’t get it. I never have. Natural boobs, no matter their size, are always more attractive. Boobs are beautiful, and no, I’m not speaking from a lesbian perspective. I’m speaking from an artist’s perspective. I find the natural human form in all its shapes, sizes, tints, tones, shades, and appendage to be beautiful. And I understand the fascination with boobs. As mammals, unless you were totally bottle fed, we’ve all had a boob in our mouth at one time or another and no matter the size, boobs make people awkward and stupid. I guess that’s why they call someone being an idiot a “Boob”.

So, Mr. Musk, I heard about your recent boob joke, and I found it funny. Who says tech-folks can’t be funny. Anyone who was offended by such a joke has their panties in a bunch over something else. I would agree that commenting on a specific person’s boobs in such a workplace would be inappropriate, but your joke wasn’t directed at an individual. It was directed at boobs in general, and I was amused. What I found offensive was this story about Miss Simpson. This woman has made her career acting like a “boob” and has fake boobs to boot. Who the heck knows about her substance abuse issues. It’s really none of anyone’s business and the publicity has been nothing but a stunt to ingratiate her to an audience with waning interest. The photo in question being touted as “unrecognizable” in no way is unattractive in my opinion. It looks real. It’s a photo of her in her home environment with no makeup not trying to impress anyone. The “after” photos I’ve seen are the grotesque photos. Hard fake boobs and tons of make-up looking into the camera seeking external approval? Those are the offensive photos…not the relaxed natural photo. So, Jessie, what I’m saying is you looked better when you were a drunk…if in fact you actually were a drunk. Your recent photos look staged and airbrushed, as fake as your tits and as cheap as your line of shoes.

Another offensive story I’ve been seeing pushed by the media is the coverage of Brian and Gabby. Can everyone please leave those two families alone? They have more than enough grief to fill all my bras and then some…and no one comes out of that story a winner. I really don’t want to hear any more about it. I’d rather hear Elon tell another boob joke or see real news coverage about the side effects being reported all over the globe from these vaccines being pushed on everyone. And if you’re going to talk about Mr. Baldwin, I’d like to hear from SAG-AFTRA. I certainly don't agree with Mr. Wheaton. It sounds a lot to me like Mr. Baldwin acted as a hit-man. As a person who has worked as an extra on a few sets and tried to get my foot in the door to both the film and music industry I can smell a steaming pile of shit from here to New Mexico. Those crew members were more than justified in demanding local accommodations. They were shooting out side and the lighting could not be controlled and those old South-Western highways are treacherous, particularly in times like now when there are so many desperate people crossing the border potentially wandering through the desert seeking a six figure handout from Joe Biden. Baldwin should be ashamed of himself. Please, Elon…another boob joke to lighten the mood. Meanwhile, in Israel they are auctioning off concentration camp branding sets. No joke. Perhaps there are those who would like to use them once more? Passport please? Do you have your papers? Yeah…I’ll take a boob joke over the reality of leftist elitist bullshit any day.

Anyway…It makes my joints hurt, but I’m grateful for all the recent rain. Bring on the winter holiday season, you Boobs. I'm the TITS! You're the TITS! Christmahannukwanzasolcticus is the TITS!