They came in when I was 10, but it took until I was 21 for someone to explicitly not appreciate my breasts.
My boss called me into her office. “This is hard to say,” she said. Crap. She placed her hand to her chest, and with that I knew: This woman didn’t appreciate my boobaliciousness.
At first I was mortified. “Er, I’m sorry,” I half laughed. “I didn’t look in the mirror before walking out the door this morning. It won’t happen again.” I left the office within minutes, but on the car ride home my embarrassment turned to frustration. Was she really telling me to hide a body part I could do nothing about?
Allow me to clarify. It was not like I was wearing tube tops on the job—just a sundress whose ability to, how should I say, push stuff up, I underestimated. I am rather endowed in the chest-region, so whatever top I wear is guaranteed to be filled out a fair amount, ultimately revealing at least a glimpse of what I’ve got going on. I didn’t go to work with the intention of dressing scantily— I save those outfits for church. But still, my boss told me to cover up. Now before you say, “Jacqueline, your breasts are beautiful, but you’re in the real world now. It’s time to dress a little more modestly,” let me explain why this is complete crap.
I’m willing to bet all the money in the world that if a straight dude wants to think about boobs, he is going to think about boobs. It does not matter if a real pair—mine or otherwise—are right in front of him. I don’t need James Franco in front of me to launch into some erotic fantasy, and I would venture the same goes for men and breasts.
Secondly, not even a turtleneck will make my silhouette look like that of Mischa Barton in all her flat-chested glory. I’ve got breasts, and this may be a tad shocking, but they exist even when a shirt is on top of them. You can tell by that whole me-not-turning-into-a-plank thing when I put on a sweatshirt.
Lastly, if my bosom is distracting people from their work, it is not my job to fix that. If you can’t concentrate on doing your job because my outfit is a wee-bit tight, that is not my problem. If Jon Hamm worked in my office, it would be ridiculous for me to request he wear a bag on his head because I find his devilishly good looks distracting. Jon could no more easily remove his face (thank god) than I could remove my boobs. And this may be hard to believe, but if my cleavage is showing in the office, I’m not pushing a hidden agenda. It is actually difficult to cover them completely, and I don’t think I should be required to buy a new wardrobe so that I may do so, especially for the office that was too cheap to pay me.
I expect some people to say I need to grow up, get in touch with reality and stop whining. Others might suggest I’m doing women a disservice in the workplace by not covering a highly sexualized body part, that because of my style women in the office are seen for their bodies, not their skills. Well, to hell with you both. Group one: I will never grow up. Even when my breasts grow down, I will be emphatic and passionate about everything. And group two: Way to give women even more reason to be ashamed of their bodies.
Perhaps this situation would be less frustrating had my boss not been guilty of the same crime. But because I’m not as irrational as this column makes me sound, I whipped out the high-buttoning blouses. Still, if Jon Hamm ever walks into my office, you won’t hear me ask that he cover up his assets. And by that I mean his eyes and hair. If he’s walking around pantsless we may actually have a problem.
Want to fight for your right to flaunt what yo mamma gave ya? E-mail Jacqueline at joreilly@wisc.edu and stick it to the man with a nice v-neck.
