A good friend of mine announced that she kinda liked the idea of getting ‘Breast Augmentation’. ( Translation: a BOOYA boob job.) And then another friend chimed in all horrified.’Are you crazy! Why? I thought you were a feminist…I thought you were a strong, powerful and confident woman…” In a nutshell, ‘I am so disappointed in you – you weak wimpy Barbie wannabe!’ And the conversation just fell apart after that.
I realized that the topic of implants can be incredibly divisive. Some say, BOOYA! Wouldnt that be great. Some react with sheer disgust. Ewww, nasty! And then they never look at you the same way again. Personally, a Boob Job ranks on my list of “Things to do if i ever win the Lottery AND also turn into a She Hulk who feels no pain ever AND if they invent a way to get em just by taking a couple of pills.” Thats right. Im getting a Booya job right after i get a tattoo of Twilight on my left butt.NOT.
But Ive been pondering over this fleeting thought of artificial mammaries and the reactions it gets, and I have decided that its kinda like my decision to get fake plants to put in my house.For some frustratingly unknown reason, I cannot keep plants alive. I water them. Feed them. Sometimes, I even talk to them. Well, more correctly, I yell at them. Usually when theyre in the last stages of a slow death and Im exhorting them not to give up. ‘Damnit! Whats wrong with you?! I give you everything! Everything! Why cant you just live, dammnit, LIVE!’
Finally my children told me to get real. ‘Mum, youre wasting money buying those plants. Youre a plant killer. Just face it. You need to buy fake plants.’ I didnt want to accept their truths. I was raised by a Vogue House and Garden mother who taught us that plastic plants were for tacky, cheap, taste-less, domestic losers. With no class and no style. (My mother is a plant killer too. But SHE has a fulltime gardener who can constantly replenish sickly houseplants for her. While I, on the other hand…do not.)
I really like having plants and flowers in my house. They make me smile. They make me happy. They make me more inclined to ignore the mess and the stress. So I did it. I went out and bought a load of fake plants and artfully dotted them around my home. My mother came to visit. And no surprises there – she was not impressed. ‘Eww, thats just so tacky. They’re so obviously fake! If youre going to get artificial plants, couldnt you at least get the quality ones?’ (She means like the handmade silk orchids with Swarovski crystal dew that I would have to sell one of my children to purchase.) And I have to deep breathe and remind myself, that I am a grown woman who has meaning and worth in this universe EVEN IF my mother thinks I have crappy taste. That I am the boss of my house and I can damn well put fake plants in it if it makes me happier, damnit!
And likewise,if somebody wants to get some fake boobs to decorate her wilted, dejected, droopy self – then she should bloody well be able to! We are not all blessed to have plants that naturally stand up to attention, that flourish abundantly and beautifully. Feminism is all about making sure women have choices. So if a BOOYA job makes a woman smile more, makes her happier, makes her a little perkier – then I say GO FOR IT! Join the fake plant revolution.
(Only, if she goes overboard and gets mammaries related to Dolly Parton then she should be prepared for people wrinkling their noses at her, ‘Ewww…thats just sooo tacky! Nasty!’) Cos there really is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Even if its fake.