Boobs

I used to joke that I thanked God every day that I wasn't born a woman. I wasn't completely joking, as I can't imagine how poor a job I'd do without my Y chromosome.

I can't imagine living with boobs. It may be difficult on observers' eyes watching my belly bounce while I sprint across a field or down a court, but I don't feel the bouncing. Nor do I wear any girdle to keep my gut from smacking me elsewhere. While I'd probably get used to working a clasp behind my back, the last thing I'd want is to match colors so the straps don't show through my shirts (blouses?). I make no attempt to color-coordinate my underwear now - clean is good enough for me. (Of course, if I don't alter my diet over the next few years, I'll most likely develop moobs. Meh.)

I'd have to go sans makeup, even for formal occasions. There've been only a handful of times when I thought women looked more attractive wearing facepaint. Maybe more women apply it better and I simply don't recognize the facial art they've done. What of base and cover-up? Screw it. I wouldn't pay for the products, I sure as hell wouldn't use them, and if that meant I could never drive a Mary Kay pink Cadillac, so be it.

I hate shaving enough as is when it's only my face. The idea of a razor nick in my armpit gives me the willies. I guess I could live in Europe? (Do Brits shave their legs?)

Many authors have written about the joys of giving birth. Thanks. Pass. I've been carrying this excess weight around my midsection for far longer than nine months, and while a sudden purge would be nice, it's not worth the agony. Plus, there's menstruation, hormones, society-imposed body-image issues....

Put all of it together, and the detriments vastly outweigh the benefits of having boobs. God bless you, women everywhere. I don't know how you do it. And I don't want to.