FOR WHO THE BREASTS TOLL

My Friend's Breasts Are So Big — How Big Are They?

We need better names for boobs

My boobs are huge, my friend told me. We were living in Seattle. She was trying on a dress for a Seattle Mariners Game. She was sitting in the box with a second date she wanted to impress.

We were discussing what kind of bra she should wear with it. It was the kind of dress that would do better with small boobs or no boobs.

When she said, My boobs are huge, I said, How big are they? I felt we needed a punchline. It was like she said, a priest, a rabbi, and a minister walked into the room.’ And then what? I needed a payoff.

So when she said “36 G,” I was disappointed.

I grew up in the era of your mama’s so old she farts dust, your mama’s so fat people ask her for a transfer, your papa’s so old he owes king tutt a nickle. So, when I say how big are they? I want a cooler answer than 36 G.

It wasn’t her fault language around breasts is limited. Our breast language lacks both feminist humor and creativity. I felt ripped off. I kept hearing “How big are they?” in a brain loop.

I felt like the number-letter combo answer for boob size short changes the potential for describing our breasts. Boobs do so much for us in life. Other than feed babies and create and enjoy excitement, they’re art. Artists have been recreating them for centuries. 36G does not exhibit that reality.

No boobs are the same, not even on our own bodies. Yet, we divy out numbers and letters like we’re categorizing them for a shoe rack.

Boobs should, at the very least, have names like hurricanes. Katrina, Ida, names. In 2021 alone, we’ve had hurricanes named Larry, Mindy, Nicholas, Odette, Peter, Rose, Sam, Teresa and Victor. I mean that is a lot of male names, but whatever. They beat 32–38 A-Z.

Or maybe tropical cyclone names. Alex, Bonnie, Colin, Danielle, Earl, Fiona, Gaston, Hermine, Ian, Julia, Karl, Lisa, Martin, Nicole, Owen, Paula, Richard, Shary, Tobias, Virginie, Walter.

We call our breast our girls, but we don’t name them. A few people do but not as a general rule.

What about book titles for our breasts? The Devil Wears, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, Love in the Time of Cholera. Better? Closer? Warmer?

36G seems so sterile. I’m an E. I’m an A. I’m a C. Boring. Our boobs deserve more interesting names and titles.

What about names of paintings that depict boobs? Gita Govinda, Shunga, the Monalisa de Breast. You don’t know that one? Look it up.

Think about going to a bra fitting if you didn’t know what your boobs were called yet. It would be like Harry Potter finding out which wand would be best suited for him.

You take off your top. The older woman at Nordstrom holds your breasts in her hands, observes them, and says “I think you are an Able was I ere I saw elba.” When you ask her why are they named that, she says “Your boobs are so clearly a palindrome. Would you prefer Madame I’m Adam?”

We can do better, women. But it’s a journey. A boob journey.

My friend's breasts shouldn’t be limited to letters and numbers. None of ours should. Numbers and letters conjure up nothing. When I said how big are they, I don’t want a punchline. I would like an answer that could compete with the Ancient Mariner's glittery tale. Say more. Hold me hostage with your breast language.

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