Leslie Lehr - A Boobs Life: How Americas Obsession Shaped Me—and You

For my girls, and yours.

The body is not a thing, its a situation.

SIMONE DE BEAUVOIR

Some people think having large breasts makes a woman stupid.

Actually, its quite the opposite: a woman having large breasts makes a man stupid.

RITA RUDNER

M y nipples are cross-eyed. I see it clearly in the bathroom mirror the moment I step out of the shower. As steam clouds the view, I wave my towel and pray it was an optical illusion. No, theyre definitely pointing in different directions, as if embarrassed to meet my eyes. Or maybe this is payback. The truth is, my breasts have been loathed and loved, suckled and stuffed, radiated and reconstructed. They have doomed one marriage and inspired another. Yet, every step of the way, theyve had the finest treatment in America. By now, they should be perfect.

Hon? my husband, John, calls from the bedroom. Whats taking so long?

Since we married a few years ago, both of his parents passed away, and then I got cancer. This is the first home weve bought together, a condo with an ocean view well enjoy for a few years as a reward for all weve been through. The ninety-nine-step climb is like a stairway to heaven, but I didnt have to die to get here.

This is our first night to relax and renew our romance. I try. First, I dab perfume behind my ears and unclip my damp chemo curls. Then I take a deep breath and look again. If I raise up my right shoulder and arch my back just so, my breasts are lush and round and almost even. But theres no ignoring the truth. I pull a cotton nightgown over my head as fast as I can. Then I shove my towel so hard into the plastic hamper that the piece of crap falls over.

My husband tears his eyes from the TV as I stomp into the bedroom. You OK?

I snatch my phone from the cardboard moving box by the bed. I have to call my doctor.

Now? he asks, over the swell of applause for The Late Show. Are you in pain?

Yes, I want to say, psychic pain. Then I realize the doctors answering service wont consider that an emergency. When I shake my head, my husband smiles and pats the bed beside him. I surrender the phone and scooch over. He rubs my leg and glances back at the TV, where the host is mid-monologue. I start to relax. Then the host tells a boob joke about J.Lo.

The TV audience roars.

I turn to my husband who, to his credit, is not laughing. This guy gets paid millions of dollars and thats the best he can do? Shes the producer of a successful TV show.

He shrugs. Comedians have always made boob jokes.

Exactly. Its not original. Why are they laughing? Theres a neon sign that flashes the word laugh?

No, theyre really laughing. I bet half the people in that audience are women, and theyre laughing, too. Boob jokes are funny.

But why? I ask. Every woman in the world has boobs.

Thats why. Theyre the first female body part a man sees when a woman walks into a room.

The laughter dies down. The comedian is talking, but I dont care. I hate him. What makes a boob funny?

Boobs just sit there, all round and funny looking.

Dicks just sit there, too, and theyre far more funny looking. Why arent there more dick jokes?

Dick jokes are insulting.

All jokes are insulting. They make fun of something. Isnt that how humor works? Is it how the word sounds? I mean, no one says breast jokes.

Breasts are beautiful, everyone knows that. When you call them boobs, its funny.

But boob means stupid. How can an organ that turns blood into milk for babies be stupid?

Lighten up, hon. He winces as if Ive been shouting.

I just dont understand why people always laugh at boob jokes. Theyre not funny.

Why are you being so sensitive?

I dont answer, on the grounds that it might incriminate me. I remove his hand from my thigh. He raises his eyebrows. I take a deep breath and try to let it go, but I feel like punching somebody, and hes the only one here. So much for romance.

John changes the channel. We see a young woman vacuum-wrapped in a cocktail dress wave at a weather map of Southern California. Her chest sticks out so far, shes in danger of toppling over.

Theres a boob joke for you. Think shes really a meteorologist?

Thats just for ratings, he says, which proves my point. Or maybe his.

Now Im sorry I insulted the woman. The tight dress doesnt make her slutty or stupid. That was my interpretation. How can I laugh when the joke is on me?

My husband clicks to a sports channel. Men on TV shout about games with balls. I want to make a crack about that, but hes just being a guy. He cant possibly understand the frustration of a flat-chested teenager or a nursing mother or a deflated divorce.

I dont want my breasts to be funny.

He turns, surprised to see me on the verge of tears. Hon, your breasts are fucking gorgeous.

Youre just being nice. Look. I pull down my shoulder straps.

He smiles at my bare breasts as if this is a reward. Then his gaze rises to my reddened face, and he realizes this is part of the debate, one he can only lose.

I feel bad, so I let him fondle me.

You arent naked very often, he says. I dont notice the details. Its more fun to see them together with your pretty face.

Now hes pandering, so I pull up my straps. He removes his glasses and rubs his weary eyes.

When did you get so obsessed?

Seriously, hon, I say, looking down. Do you think I should get them fixed?

He turns off the TV. Up to you. I like all breasts. Theyre like pizza. Theres no such thing as bad pizza.

For men, sure. For women, all pizza is bad. Especially if we want to stay attractive to men like you, I think, cursing myself for being caught up in this competition.

My husband slips under the covers. I kiss him goodnight and grab my phone. Then I tiptoe out of the bedroom to let him sleep. Though thats a big fat lie. The truth is I dont want him to hear me call my doctor to complain.

I close the door of the room that will be my office and squeeze between moving boxes to my desk. If only it wasnt so late. I scan my contacts to find someone else to call, maybe a woman who could talk me down. I see my moms number and wonder what she would say. Or my sister. Each of us has two daughters. Thats seven sets of breasts between us. Like most women, we rarely talk about them. They wouldnt want to start now, on the phone in the middle of the night. I call my doctor and leave a message.

On my desk are a few framed photos, the first Ive unpacked. The top one shows my bare-chested dad lifting me over his head like a human barbell, the next one shows him teaching me to swim. My favorite is a faded picture of my mother, my baby sister, and me, a skinny three-year-old. We wear matching red bikinis by our apartment pool in Arizona. I remember how important it was to keep those teeny strips of red cotton over our nipples. My sister was oblivious that her top was an inch too high. The sight used to make me laugh so hard my stomach would hurt. Hiding nipples was a rule, like brushing your teeth. Moms red top has far more fabric, but as she leans down to hold our hands in the picture, her cleavage presses into a perfect line. We all look so happy, holding hands and saying cheese.

I set the picture down and start unpacking a box of books and magazines. Its a great way to stall in case my doctor calls me back. Maybe I am obsessed, but its not just me. Everyone is obsessed. Or why would boob jokes be so funny every single time?