Halloween is fast approaching, meaning the frenzied search for the perfectly costume is officially in full effect. As a girl in Oregon, this often means deciding between how comfortable you want to be versus how sexy you want to appear. It is no secret that a young woman’s Halloween is often nothing more than an excuse to wear 2 square inches of fabric as a costume, praying you stay warm while you simultaneously pretend to put out flames as a sexy fire firefighter. To quote Mean Girls, “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and do other girls can say anything about it.”
This year, I plan to take a different approach. Perusing Halloween costume patters the other day, I came across the most amazing, ridiculous looking outfits for adults. Maybe it was the corny posing of the models, or perhaps my boyfriend’s shared exuberance to make fools of ourselves. It might even be the fact that I essentially get to wear pajamas to a party while everyone else is sporting the cheap, flimsy fabric you find in most costumes. Regardless, I am embarking on a sewing mission this afternoon to make these stupendous costumes a reality. Wish me luck!
So I admit, this is sometimes a hard thing for me. I am on the small side of an A-cup, and will often find that certain styles of dresses and shirts will not fit me merely because I cannot fill out the bust. Yet I am determined to love myself for what I am naturally and be confident in the body I have. Plus, when it comes to running, being perky, and defying gravity in later years, being small is definitely an advantage. If that isn’t enough for me (or you if you also have smaller breasts or are just insecure about your boobs in general) here is an article that is sure to give an extra boost.
Let’s talk about breasts. Most guys love to, so why should I be any different? Like it or not, this anatomical accoutrement receives more than its fair share of attention from the male of the species. And while someone with a doctorate might be able to explain the underlying psychological motivation, the simple truth is that men love boobs.
“Duh,” you say, “Every woman knows of men’s almost obsessive surveillance of this particular part of the female topography. Tell me something I don’t know.” Okay, I will. Regardless of what you believe, men don’t just love big breasts. We love ‘em all: Large, small, medium, extra-large, firm, floppy, perky and pendulous. All boobs are welcome. And regardless of their size, the more we see of them the happier we are. Hence, we are ecstatic about the current padded, pushed-up, on-display style bras which go out of their way to showcase whatever you’ve got.
Now this is not to say that a man won’t be wowed by a particularly prominent set of boobs. To be truthful, most will – because larger objects tend to more easily catch our attention. Nonetheless, we are still almost fanatical in our affections for more modest endowments. And if we spy even the slightest hint of nipple, regardless of the fullness of flesh of the surrounding neighborhood, we’re happy as clams. It’s not unlike many women’s fascination with diamonds. Big ones catch your attention and may cause a chorus of “oohs” and “ahhs,” but a smaller-caratted cut of equal brilliance will still illicit its fair share of complements – since you have an enthusiastic appreciation of diamonds in general. But the similarity ends there, because even though your love of diamonds is only equaled by your disdain for cubic zirconia and other “fakes,” we feel no similar animosity toward breasts that aren’t 100 percent original equipment. Spruce ‘em up, plump ‘em out, enhance or condense ‘em, we’ll love those puppies as if they were just the way nature made ‘em. What can I say, when it comes to breasts, we’re very accommodating.
So what does all this mean? Simply put – regardless of what you have on your chest, men will be craning their necks to get a peek, or dare we dream – a grope. Such is the allure of your boobs. They are the mountains, hills or speed bumps at which we worship, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. So don’t spend a lot of time being concerned about what you have or haven’t got in the boob department. As far as we’re concerned, as long as they’re less-hairy than what we have, they’re sure to appeal to our simple tastes. And it is a bad pun, but nonetheless heartfelt, that on behalf of men everywhere, I say, “thanks for the mammaries.”
David M. Matthews
Here is one ad you apparently will not see air during the Super Bowl this sunday. It focuses on PETA’s message that vegetarians have better sex with various intimate moments between women and their beloved vegetables.
On another note, where do people come up with this stuff? Should I really be secretly turned on by broccoli?
Growing up with only brothers the appeal of high heels never got to me until later in life. Even now, I only wear them out on the weekends when I go out and to nice events. Yet I see many girls wearing them day to day as a they walk across campus to class. What makes us girls (women) wear such a torturous form of footwear? Even in my somewhat limited wear of high heels, I definitely have a few reasons.
I love the fact that they lengthen my legs, make me taller, and give me better posture (or at least that is how it feels). Wearing them, I can’t help but feel sexy and powerful. The “click clack” of my heels hitting the hard floor or sidewalk only adds to the appeal. And yet, I know how absolutely ridiculous such a choice in footwear heels are.
High heels are not nearly as comfortable as other shoes. Guys opt for sneakers and flip-flops most the time (and when it’s not the weekend, so do I); however, girls cannot seem to get away from the aesthetic look of a high heel for something more practical. It seems that even walking in them is a skill to be acquired. It definitely took me a while before I was able to strut around in the 3 1/2 to 4 inch heels I wear on nights out now. In addition, they cause damage. Not just the long term damage that no one our age seems to care about anyway but short term pain and discomfort. After 14+ hours in 4 inch heels in Vegas (it’s Las Vegas, I had to!) my feet were not only sore and forming blisters but bleeding.
It just goes to show that the old saying is true: Pain is beauty, beauty is pain.