Life has been dominated by breasts lately. A typo in my friend’s newly developed script (see the title above) has set off a plethora of tit jokes over the interwebs, and it has been most enjoyable. I got the girls out the other day (and by “out”, I mean tasteful cleavage, not rampant indecent exposure), which is a rare thing now. I was at my ex-mother-in-law’s Melbourne Cup do and I wore them as an accessory with my pretty blue dress. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you, the party being dominated by people in their 60s and over. One lovely woman asked me quite pointedly why I had them on such ostentatious display, and resisting the urge to claim I was doing a civic duty by giving the sexagenarian males something bouyant to look at, I said simply, “because I can.”

Which is entirely true. See, I work in a factory as a rent job when I’m not traipsing the boards, so I don’t get to dress up a whole lot. So, every now and then, I wear something low cut because I have fabulous boobs and it makes me feel awesome.  My theory is, if you get them out, they’re gonna be looked at. I’m okay with that. Blatant ogling and dickwadery from the lookers is never acceptable, but most people can control themselves and the odd admiring glance is entirely to be expected. I like to show off – I am a Sagittarian. I also like to be looked at occasionally, especially when I know I’m looking hot, ’cause most of the time I look fairly ordinary. And, quite frankly, I’m proud to have boobs, because boobs are awesome.

So, yeah. Because I can, lady.

I admit I take “the girls” for granted. I find myself placing my hand on one of them – usually the right one – when I’m deep in thought, as if its presence is a comfort, or a conduit for recollective thought. My most recent ex-boyfriend said I had manipulative breasts, and used them to get him around to my way of thinking (and yes, it worked every time). I get excellent customer service in petrol stations and bottle shops when they’re out. And I fully intend to use them to provide nourishment to my offspring if I ever reproduce.

So, what happens if you don’t have any? My beautiful adopted sister is currently facing that dilemma. The onset of secondary breast cancer has put her in the position of having to decide whether to undergo radiation therapy, invasive surgery and regular mammograms for the rest of her life, or have a double mastectomy. To anyone else, it’s a no-brainer: no more breasts means no more cancer. But to my sister, it’s still the thought of no more breasts. Even when faced with one’s mortality, the thought of removing one’s breasts throws up a whole pile of questions about the definition of one’s own femininity, child-rearing, the fact that there will be no more breasts where there should be breasts. It’s a situation I don’t envy her for, and I certainly have no answers for her, or anyone else.

So, maybe we should waste no more time on pondering whether it’s tarty or tasteful to wear a push-up bra to the Melbourne Cup, and simply enjoy our breasts, cruel as they may sometimes be. I enjoy mine.