No, boobs are not ‘back’

Oh to be blessed with boobs. The sustaining life force of earth and the most coveted by men. They should be celebrated and lauded with a statue dedicated to their form in every city, village and town. Incredible, spectacular, and awe-inspiring. They come in every shape, size and form. What a joy to behold. However, to say boobs are now in fashion is insulting. 

Yes, you heard me right, the word on the street is that breasts are in. According to UK retailer, Freemans, there has been a 61% surge in sales of balcony/ balconette bras this year. “Boobs are back,” Liz King of Freemans recently told The Sun newspaper. “Like so many 90s fashions, push-up bras are back in vogue with Gen Z shoppers.” Others believe there is a Bridgerton effect with its choice of heaving necklines. 

And so, the trending cycle of a woman’s body continues to shift and switch. Our body parts move into competition with one another. Our breasts battle against bums, our bums against breasts. First, it was the BBL, now it’s all about the Ozempic body and allegedly, a renewed fascination with boobs. 

As women, we can’t win. A man’s body is never used as a tool to recharge the zeitgeist but ours are the punching bags. Despite this, as we watch our bodies be dissected and scrutinised, the one thing that hasn’t changed in this long-running saga is our relationship with breasts. 

With a 32H set on my body, I feel I have some sliver of authority on this matter. Since the age of 15, my boobs have been pointed at, marvelled at, leered at, groped at by creepy old men, groped at my creepy young men, judged by the women in the M&S bra fitting section, prodded at by doctors, studied by friends and ridiculed by others. 

My relationship with them has been fraught. I got my first bra at the age of 11, well ahead of the girls in my class. When my mother told me I needed some extra support, she did so in hushed tones in the dire depths of my girlhood room as if all the other mothers (or God more than likely) would hear and brandish me with a scarlet A, like in The Scarlet Letter. 

That first bra was sporty in style, with a little blue diamante heart in the middle. It was pretty and I felt nice. Little did I know that in the years to come I would have to stuff my boobs into medieval entrapments moonlighting as suffocation devices. To this day, the idea of buying a new bra gives me the shivers. 

At that age, I didn’t realise the extent to which boobs are sexualised. To me, they are evil twins, conjoined at the hip, whose only goal in life is to make me suffer and override my days with back pain. To the world, they are funbags from a porno. This generalisation means that I have often felt an intense need to hide them away.

My posture is skewed and not because the sheer weight of them pulls me forward. No, it’s because of absolutely everything else. Wearing a low-cut top felt dirty to me. My brain’s insecurities convinced me I was akin to a woman of the night walking into my local Supervalu at 1 o’clock in the day on the hunt for a hot chicken wrap from the deli counter. 

As age has blessed me, I have become more confident in my form and have begun to let them shine. Before your imagination flashes with nudity, I don’t get them out for all to see but I have realised that the lower-cut tops I once felt disgusted by are actually quite flattering. I have also become sick and tired of hiding them away because of the musty perceptions of others.

As I have begun traversing the world with this newfound confidence I’ve been called out by other women – and when I say ‘called out’ I mean it. Women like to protect other women, and I know when these interactions happen, they are meant with good intentions. However, quite frankly, it’s embarrassing to have someone approach you in a group and tell you to pull up your top or physically do it for you. This has happened countless times in the last six months.

It most recently occurred in the presence of a very good friend. My double F frustration boiled over and I confronted her. While I knew she didn’t mean harm, the tit complex was becoming ever more exhausting. There was nothing I could do and I liked my dress. She promised that she was just trying to help me. “Well, I can’t neatly tuck them into the side of my trousers can I?” I said.

And this brings us neatly to the topic of clothing. If tits were trending – as presumed by a national newspaper here in Ireland last week – apparel would be made to fit them in droves. Every item of clothing on racks and pictured online would be ‘totally titastic.’ When the Kardashian body hit the mainstream, the fast fashion world took note. From jeans to skirts, clothes were designed to skim the body sensually. They were made to enhance what the Lord (or the plastic surgeon) gave you. 

Tell me one brand that is currently tailoring clothing for a bigger chest. Show me the thick straps and the tops with the full-backs. Show me the dresses that can fit below your shoulders and come without side zips. You can’t, can you? Because breasts are not in vogue. Whoever tells you otherwise is a C cup and under. 

So, until the day tits hit the top of the trending body pops, my advice to my fellow full-chested ladies is this: embrace them. Wear the low-cut top and don it with pride. If someone urges you to pull it up, tug it down a little lower for the laugh. 

Stop feeling imprisoned by the standards set by this often strange and unsparing society. Because someday soon, those sustaining life forces will finally be in fashion. 

And oh boy, will we whip those medieval entrapments that we cage them in every day off in celebration.