March 28, 2022 — All anyone can talk about today is Will Smith’s reaction to a joke in poor taste told by Chris Rock on the Academy Awards stage last night. It’s so hard for me to imagine that almost everyone in the media has overlooked the big, and I mean the big story of the night. The proliferation of the Side Boob.
When it comes to body and fashion, mostly I got nothing. God did not gift me good looks, and my penchant for penny candy has made me larger than life in several ways. But when it comes to cleavage, baby, I’m number one. (Rather number 42DD.) I don’t care if it is a memorial service for Wendell Willkie or the circus coming to town; there will be a lovely décolleté showing if I have to dress up. When you got it, flaunt it. When it’s all you got, flaunt it greatly. And I have noticed a few male eyes looking at my boobal region when I take the girls out for a fancy event.
My husband was a low-budget wedding photographer for a 1986 ceremony where I served as a bridesmaid. The girls were so young and perky, still not thirty, and always up for a test drive. The bride chose hot pink gowns for her maids, with a neckline somewhere south of Patagonia. Let’s put it this way: I was a standout in the crowd. The girls were still poised, proud, happy, and seriously upright.
When the many rolls of pictures came back from the drug store, my chest featured prominently in many of the photographs. It was a little bit too obvious. That marriage where I was a bridesmaid and he the photographer didn’t last. I wonder if that had anything to do with it.
On the Oscar stage last night, the three hilarious co-hosts came out at the show’s beginning, and sure enough, Amy Schumer presented herself with something beyond cleavage, like grapefruit in a transparent grocery bag. She’s hilarious, but lemme tell you; she needs wires like the Roebling Brothers used for the Brooklyn Bridge. The Side Boob is not a good look for her, but she could rock cleavage.
And I swear I saw some nipple on one of the Williams sisters. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but if I see some cleavage, I would just as soon as the nipples do not show. Wardrobe malfunction, indeed.
After watching the boobs trot out for an hour, we changed the channel to watch “The Weakest Link” and missed the most exciting adventure on the stage since a streaker ran behind David Niven. I saw that one life, long ago, in a world where we all went to the theater and enjoyed films together. We ate popcorn with too much butter and our feet stuck to sticky floors.
That was a long time ago, but I remember the streaker. He bared his nipples, but that wasn’t anyone’s most enduring memory. What I remember and indeed others do as well is what Niven said,
“But isn’t it fascinating to think that probably the only laugh that man will ever get in his life is stripping off and showing his shortcomings?”
Girls, if you’ve got it, flaunt up, but do it the old-fashioned way with wires and pulleys like your grandmother did.