Simply the Breast: One woman mourns the disappearing B-cup

I'VE SEEN my fair share of boobs in my day. Aside from my own pert little ladies, I've seen those of my friends, my sisters, and the women I've dated. I've seen areolas big and small, stretch marks, double nipples, nipples brown and pink, and the occasional un-plucked nipple hair. Though I don't necessarily consider myself a boob woman, I'll admit that I am a purist when it comes to breasts.

I shun those bullet-proof Victoria's Secret boulder holders in favor of a more realistic sheer cup that shows off a recognizable nipple. When I can, I prefer to skip the bra altogether. And I shudder at the sight of those fake orbs mounted on women's chests that can be called only one thing: tits. Even the word sounds artificial.

So it was with great sadness that I recently bid farewell to my sister's natural breasts. The last time we spoke of them, it was a tense conversation during which I tried to talk her out of getting implants. But it was no use. Too many punch lines comparing her breasts to those of Magda, the saggy-uddered septuagenarian from There's Something About Mary, apparently did a little bruising. And she could never shake the memory of her young daughter looking up at her and shouting, "Look! Mommy's got 'skeeto bites too!"

I think the fact that it's my sister is what made me react so passionately. Having grown up as late bloomers and weathered the taunts of our high-school peers, we had something of an unspoken bond over our breast size. We were the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, if you will.

Then again, my response was just as vehement when my college pal revealed that she, too, was investigating the procedure.

Here are two beautiful women, both in healthy, long-term relationships. One is a lawyer at one of the most powerful companies in the digital world; the other recently performed a string of naked cartwheels in her backyard. Not necessarily what you'd call wilting flowers, in either case. Which is why I raise my fists and yell, "Why?!"

I understand the tired arguments about female self-empowerment and improving one's self esteem. But it's not a seven-pound goiter hanging from your neck. They're breasts that just happen to be smaller than the average size to which we've grown accustomed. According to bra manufacturers, the average size of the American breast has grown from a 34B to 36C in the past several years. And British bra manufacturers report that sales of large bra sizes have tripled over the last three years, making the average bra cup there a size 36C, compared with 34B a decade ago.

Wishful thinking could have us attributing this growth spurt to things like tofu or mint-cookie Luna bars. But, realistically, it's silicone and saline. The average breast size is larger because - drum roll, please - it's fake.

Sure, we can take the easy way out and blame men, something like 90 percent of whom say they prefer large breasts. But I'm over that excuse. At this point, it's our own fault. Most men I talk to say they like a natural breast - big or small. I truly believe that women are now following each others' lead. When tapered jeans became all the rage a few years ago, most of us who remembered them from the '80s balked at the resurgent trend. But I bet most of you went out and bought a pair when you realized that your boot-cuts were making you appear dated. Are our lemming-like behaviors so different when it comes to breast implants?

Check this out: since the year 2000, the number of breast-implant procedures has increased by 476 percent, according to the American Society of Plastic Surgeons. More than two million women in the United States have breast implants, and more than 360,000 American women will undergo breast augmentation this year. If you believe certain reports, this has created an environment of heightened self-esteem and increased sexual gratification. If you believe others, this has resulted in increased suicide rates and decreased sexual pleasure. I wish I were smart enough to scientifically determine when the world will no longer have any real-breasted women; at this rate, I imagine the time isn't far off. And small-breasted women are clearly a dying breed. By the time I'm 65, I'll probably have reporters from 20/20 contacting me for a story on "Breasts of Yesteryear."

"How do you find a B-cup bra nowadays, Ms. Greeley?" the reporter will ask. I'll wow him with the lengthy explanation of a nice man in Kazakhstan who spends his days weaving my tiny burlap cups and then fastening them together with an intricate series of synthetic ropes and a buckle made from a set of donkey teeth.

"This might be a bit of an imposition," the reporter will say. "But can we have a look at the real thing?"

"Sure," I'll comply, reaching beneath my shirt to somewhere just above my navel to grab the elusive fuckers. Then I'll reveal my shriveled little love sacks for all to marvel at.

A guffaw will come from offstage: my sister. Over the years, her chest will have been inflated and deflated like an inner tube to replace her aging implants. She'll have become a road map of scars. But she'll have the rack of a 22-year-old stripper to complement her frail, 68-year-old frame.

She'll be having herself a nice big laugh. And so will I. @

Jeannie Greeley is a barely-B-cup freelance writer. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net. (Author's note: this column is not intended to reflect on surgery having to do with breast-cancer-related illnesses or mastectomy.)