Don’t Push ’Em Up!

The twin (although not identical) sister of my long-ago University of Texas girlfriend, Pam, was named Becky. They were born on July 4, 1952—a few months before me. That means they were sophomores and I was a freshman when we met at Jester dormitory in Austin. Other unnecessary background information is that their father was a military man and thus they lived in Japan, Hawaii, Texas and Virginia, and maybe some other places. They had no siblings, so the family consisted of four members.

While I recall “sexual competition” in high school, that was doubled or tripled in college as people were not just studying but seeking potential mates, husbands or wives. I am making heterosexual assumptions here, if only because Pam, Becky and I were not homos. They liked guys, I liked girls.

Becky was a typically pretty female student on the 40 Acres at that time. I remember Pam telling me that in high school, she envied her sister because the boys paid her so much attention. I never thought Pammy, who reached the full flower of her young womanhood at UT, was any less attractive. We are nearing the point, dear reader, and that is breasts.

The May 1972 issue of Esquire magazine contained a most interesting article by Nora Ephron: “A Few Words about Breasts.” She wrote with humor but some anger of being small-breasted, of female body image and of her desperate need for male attention. Ephron’s article drew massive reader response and boosted her career as a writer and film maker (Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle and others). Eleven years later, I took a creative writing class at UT in which this was the subject of an animated discussion.

I doubt that Becky ever read Ephron’s pungent essay, but she really should have. It was full of dazzling insights about Ephron’s desire to be bustier and her resentment of curvy women. An affluent, Jewish, Upper West Sider, her small-breasted “condition” caused her to seek therapy. Needless to say, she was also critiquing men’s obsession with that part of the female anatomy.

The twin sisters of whom I write were B-cup cuties, which is say they were not exactly top-heavy. Pam, with whom I spent several intimate years, did not indicate the slightest concern about her somewhat small breasts. Becky, however, clearly felt otherwise. She thought it imperative to show herself as having “enough” to draw the male gaze. She tried to compensate by wearing push-’em-up bras. These tight-fitting undergarments, which contained two strips of metal, must have been vexatious. Pam, by contrast, was untroubled; her bras were all about comfort. Sure, she wanted to look good but she would never have gone with the push-’em-up mode. If she had, I would have told her it was unnecessary.

Saying so to Becky, of course, would have been entirely inappropriate. Still, I wished that had been possible. Read Nora Ephron’s essay, I might have told her. Or—as if in 1972 I had the wisdom and awareness I have accrued over the last five decades—I could have said, “Becky, you need to realize that this insecurity about the size of your breasts is not conducive to success with men. Yes, it’s true that many or perhaps most of us have an immature fixation on Playboy Playmate-type bosoms. But there is something better and healthier than that. A woman who is truly at ease with herself, who accepts herself as she is—now, that is attractive. Sexy is as sexy does. When you push ’em up, they do not look natural. I urge you to gather all your push-’em-up bras and throw them in the trash can.”

Furthermore, she ought to have known that the daily life of a large-chested woman can be problematic. After I separated from Pam, several GFs confided that they yearned to be somewhat smaller on top.

The last time I had any contact with Becky was, I believe, the spring 1975 semester. She later married, moved to Ohio to raise horses with her husband and got religion in a big way. I feel certain that she has long since overcome her lack of cleavage and the insecurity of not being a C-cup or even D-cup woman.