(This may turn out to be something of a Roman railway.)
In performing a superficial pretense of research for this piece, I began asking Google what I imagine to be a common question. I got as far as typing why are men o, at which point it suggested that I might be wondering why men are obsessed with one of three things: breasts, football, and virginity. Right first time.
(By the way, the top Yahoo! Answer to the question is: “i’m more a leg and bum man… :D”. So… now you know.)
But this isn’t going to be a post about evolutionary psychology, or even about boobs and why they’re awesome. It’s about suggesting a different approach to fixing all of sexism. (Okay, just one teeny tiny bit of it.)
The point is, many women are clearly baffled by the attention that their front-upper-butts receive from a significant number of men. The appeal isn’t obvious to them, and that’s fine. I’ve tried and failed to get into things that girls seem to enjoy, like Project Runway or Star Wars. It’s not going to help anyone trying to explain what’s so awesome about them, it’s just a perfectly natural difference in tastes.
But the fact that men are mighty keen on boobs doesn’t, on its own, bother anyone. The problem comes when we act mighty keen on boobs.
Actually no, even that’s not a real source of any trouble. It really only becomes a problem – as, I guess, with any other obsession – when our passion spills over into our everyday, non-boob-related lives to the extent that everyone else is more than acutely aware of exactly how boobicentric our minds are.
The problem is when we really like boobs, and we act like we really like boobs, and we act like we don’t care how irrelevant you thought boobs were to this conversation before we mentioned our fondness for them, and we seem either unaware or unconcerned with the fact that things other than boobs might be high up on other people’s lists of priorities.
It’s just not practical to expect men to “get over” boobs anytime soon. They’re not going anywhere (unless I’ve been very wrong about God’s benevolent non-existence and actually he’s been setting us all up for a fall), and it’d be insincere to pretend they’re not awesome. If I meet you, and you have boobs, I will probably notice them. I may automatically evaluate them. That may sound unfair and judgmental, and it probably is, but I can’t switch it off. And part of me doesn’t want to, because hey, boobs.
The things I actually have control over – whether I’m notably staring at them, whether I’m needlessly making them relevant to a conversation, whether I’m acting in a needlessly boobaholic way – all that I’ve got a handle on. Those are goals we can realistically meet, and we should. But we’re not going to magically evict boobs from our brainspaces anytime
(If I was less tired and had figured out where I was going with this sooner, I might have found some clever way to tie it into, like, Boobquake, or elevatorgate, or something with some relevance. But no, none of that. Boobs are their own reward.)