On my seventh birthday, it happened:
-I finally got the doll of my dreams.
She wasn’t any kind of Barbie, but her name was Steffi and she rocked my world. Standing tall at approximately eighteen inches, she had the token mane of horse hair, but a not-so-standard body. It was a cuddly body, made out of plush material. You may be imagining a Cabbage Patch doll, but let me assure you, Steffi was a standard anorexic (and that’s how I like ‘em!).
Though I loved my Steffi Doll to death, I didn’t like her outfit. She was wearing a short jean skirt (which was fine), but her top was made out of denim too. Even at the age of seven, I knew to stay away from “denim on denim” (though I’d forget that rule in the 90′s); so why didn’t Steffi know?
As I was tugging away at her ugly jacket, I noticed that it was removable. And so, with all the excitement of a teenage boy who’s finally about to “score”, I ripped off her little jacket with my pointed teeth (or maybe with my hands).
Underneath it was a dazzling sight:
-A sparkly purple bra-top, sewn right on to her plush and squeezy melons.
She looked like a grown-up woman!
I was thrilled, and from there she began to headline my living room fashion show. I would walk her along the bottom of the fireplace: three steps forward, stop and turn, three steps more, stop and turn (and back again).
One afternoon my mother walked in while I was doing the fashion show…and she basically had a fit. She grabbed the doll and demanded to know wear I’d put her shirt.
Like most mothers do, she didn’t even pause for an answer, but instead continued on with her booming rant.
I wasn’t really able to process everything she said (half because of tears, have because of trembling “mom-fear”).
Even so, I managed to absorb some overall themes: dolls should never take their clothes off…it’s wrong to show your body like that…girls who show their skin are “very bad”.
I never took off Steffi’s ugly jacket again, but still I was confused by the hardcore rule. Confused because, whenever my dad was watching a Bollywood movie, the starring girl would be dressed in a sparkly “half shirt”, with giant boobs just waiting to escape. It was during these very movies, that I first saw a man kiss an Indian girl on the boobs. They had both been dancing in the rain, and after all the hops and skips, he buried his face in her chest (but only for a second, ’cause anything else would be classified as Indian porn).
It was a scene I’d never forget, because my dad was trying hard not to flinch, while my mom was letting out a grunt (it was not a happy grunt). All along I’d been standing in the darkened hallway (hiding from my older brother and his ”wrestling moves”).
So as you can imagine, boobs were an intriguing thing for me, and I was so excited that I’d get to grow some big ones too (whatever happened to that plan?)…which is why it really hurt that I had to cover Steffi’s melons.
Over time I was raised to feel more and more indecent on the topic of “skin”. By the time I was in high school, I was way too reserved to even try on a “baby tee” (while every other girl was playing fat-roll “Show and Tell”).
It was not even until my early 20′s, that I first showed my cleavage in public. All those years of hiding my supple flesh; years that I will never get back. Hmm…maybe that’s why I’m so enthralled by the topic of boobs (and their role in society).
And the irony of it all? I now wear trampy shirts all the time, and nobody even cares! Even my “indian dresses” are tailored to be “tight on top” (as per the direction of my very own mother!)
What can I say, I guess things change when you’re hawking a depreciating daughter (and no I’m not married yet…tick-tock)
