In ninth grade, I was in chorus. It was a very egalitarian
chorus, they didn’t mind if you weren’t fabulous. I wasn’t fabulous. I love to
sing. I think everyone should sing, out loud, in public, whenever the spirit
hits them. Singing frees up your soul. Singing is the wings on the angels, its
what lets them soar. If I am sad, music picks me up. I have a weird line up of
records to play, specific songs from each, to lift me. I start with The Mills
Brothers. By the time I’ve played the first three or four songs in my line-up,
I’m down right cheerful. I progress through the songs, each perkier than the
last, then wander through many other albums, singing my heart out. I may start with Mood Indigo, but I end up
somewhere around Aerosmith, The Rave-Ups, and They Might Be Giants. Singing
makes me happy.
Anyway, in ninth grade chorus, there was a girl who looked
like the meanest girl on the planet. She had jet black hair, DoubleD breasts,
and a vicious scowl. She scared me. She was quite pretty but mean looking. Now,
our chorus room had bleachers. We’d line up on the bleachers just as we did on
the stage for concerts, and that’s how we practiced. One particular day, the
teacher called the Sopranos down to the piano to do warm ups, and this mean
faced girl was the first to arrive there. She stopped on the lowest tier of the
bleachers, lifted up those DoubleD tits, and dropped them on top of the piano!
And then she smiled.
This was the first time I ever saw her smile. Her face lit
up. She lit up. She became, in that moment, the most beautiful person I had
ever seen. This was a joy like I had never expected her to possess, and I
suddenly understood that those massive breasts caused her a lot of pain. I
suspected there was plenty of emotional pain, since young males were (are)
enormously distracted by tits and hers were enormously distracting even if you
weren’t interested in tits. I wondered how she could ever know if a boy liked
the person behind the breasts. That isn’t the pain I suddenly understood.
It was the recognition that large breasts were heavy that struck me; the slow
comprehension that this weight pulled her off balance and required her spine
and muscles to work constantly to keep her balanced and upright. I don’t think
I ever would have understood that if I hadn’t seen her drop those boulders on
top of the piano and smile that stunning smile.
Whenever I see one of those women who have had mega-implants installed,
I think of this girl.
I think it odd that people never seem happy with how they
look. Girls with straight hair get perms, girls with curly hair iron it
flat. We get breast implants or
reductions, tummy tucks, nose jobs – now having your lips fattened is the
thing. I don’t get that, at all. Most of the women I see with that lip thing
have weird looking mouths. Honestly, to me, it looks like they have a vagina on
their faces, which is probably why so many men think this is sexy. This
fixation with altering appearance isn’t restricted to women. Men do it with
bodybuilding, often going to bizarre extremes.
We tan, tattoo, make-up, curl/straighten/dye/cut, nip, tuck,
inflate, and pierce. Using our bodies, we find infinite way to express who we
are. Our bodies and faces are the ultimate canvas on which we display our
creativity and individuality. If we don’t like something, we change it,
sometimes permanently, sometimes not. I wonder that girl from chorus had her
breasts reduced. I wonder if the lip-fattening women have regrets. I wonder.
Mostly I wonder if these changes give the sculptee lasting pleasure. What I
mean is that plump lips or big tits don’t change who you are, and if who
you are doesn’t change, how you feel
inside doesn’t change either. It doesn’t matter how you look - pretty does not
equal happy. Change how you think and you change how happy you are. Change how
you look and you change how you look.
© Copyright 2011 Rikki Ansell
all rights reserved
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