Dear Guy at the gym who asked me if I had a boob job:
I’m barely awake. Did you really just ask me that? What? Why, yes, the carpet does match the drapes. I can’t believe I just answered that question. I guess I was so stunned that I rewarded your unbelievably rude question with a response that didn’t involve me turning around abruptly and walking away. You have a good reason for asking? Oh, well then by all means, please pro-ceed. I didn’t realize your mobile mammogram van was in the parking lot.
Really? It never crossed your mind that asking me about the origin of my breasts in a public (or any other) setting the second time we’ve met might be off-putting? If you’re trying to compliment my rack, I submit that there are better ways to go about it. Like don’t. I was kind enough not to ask you how you got that rotten tooth or if you knew your haircut looked silly. You know why? BECAUSE IT’S RUDE.
Remember how I told you I’d had breast cancer the first time we met? Well, that makes your question even more obnoxious. Maybe I don’t like talking about my breasts that were formerly cancered, whether I’ve had reconstruction or not. I bravely refrained from asking about how many testicles you have. See what self-restraint and lack of entitlement to know about other people’s privates is like? Yeah, pretty nice. Do you also ask overweight strangers if they can fit in airplane seats? Or ask the mother of twins whether she conceived her children “naturally”?
How about you? Have you been having regular bowel movements? Because it doesn’t seem like it or perhaps maybe you wouldn’t look so expectant for an actual answer to your ridiculous question. Wait, you heard that since women “elect” to have boob jobs that they are flattered when a near-stranger asks them whether those babies are real? No, that’s not how it works. If I’m on a stage in a wet t-shirt, you can scream whatever speculations you want at my tits. When I’m just trying to do squats without falling over, please leave me alone.
My boobs, and whether they’ve ever had any jobs, are seriously off limits. But take that as a good thing, because I’m not going to launch into a detailed discussion about my last pap smear either. See, when we play by the same set of socially acceptable rules, we all win. I don’t have to become incensed when the body I’m already self-conscious about is the subject of ridicule and judgment and you don’t have to hear about speculums and warm KY jelly.