Of Moobs and Men

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About: A dedicated devoté of décolletage and connoisseur of cleavage who boldly takes on, tit for tat, the day-to-day realities of having big bazooms.See Authors Posts (15)

By Gazonga Gal

Some men are born boobs, some men achieve boobness, and some, like actor Jeremy Piven, have boobness thrust upon them—in his case, a nefarious side effect of overindulging in, of all things, soymilk!

JJust when you thought that there wasn’t another reason to distrust tofu, along comes evidence that for certain males, soy (which contains natural chemicals that mimic estrogen) gluttony can lead to that infamous locker room scourge known as gynecomastia, or… the dreaded man boobs—“moobs.”

Now, before you order your honey to cease and desist from his bi-weekly order of beef with bean curd from your favorite Szechuan takeout joint or excise Pad Thai from his diet, please note that a man has to ingest massive quantities of curd—and be one of the very few who are actually predisposed to moobitude—to grow a set of feminized dim sums. Miso soup is not the enemy; the villain here is excess and genetics.

Are you listening, Piven? Put down that straw and step away from the smoothie, and no one will get hurt.

It’s a well-established fact that many men in our society love them some prime booby, except when those boobies, are in fact, their own. For Joe Average, a booby’s rightful place is immediately adjacent to another booby of equal or at least similar proportion, located on the ribcage—somewhere below the chin and above the navel—of any member of the opposite sex who has passed the puberty tollbooth on life’s twisted turnpike (about 20 miles south of the Vince Lombardi rest stop).

But, as Mother Nature is an equal-opportunity jokester, while oft’ times she stacks the deck in favor of certain gals gazongas, she’s been known to deal a full house in the rack department to a man on more than one occasion (which turns out to be about as tragically not funny as the sitcom of the same name).

A fellow of my acquaintance (who I shall only from henceforth refer to as “He Who Shall Remain Nameless) laments that no amount of exercise or diet seems to have a diminishing effect on his moobs. And for most fellows who are afflicted with the condition, that, sadly, happens to be the case. The only surefire way to banish “manateets” is by means of surgical reduction.  The good news is, that once gone, they generally do not recur.

On bad days, when he is feeling particularly peevish regarding his unwanted allotment, HWSRN opines that perhaps he will go out and purchase a training bra for his moobs, preferably in gingham with a white lace border and a pert, little bow that marks the “V” of his cleavage—or “meavage.”

As humorous as that image is, I can’t help but twist it one further permutation—since I never figured out just exactly what is it that we were supposed to be “training” our boobs to achieve… What? A degree in animal husbandry? A career in civil service? Well, there’s nursing, of course, but that’s not for everyone.

No, when I hear the phrase, “training bra,” it conjures images of a circus ring, wherein a red tail-coated and be-jodhpured lion tamer brandishes a whip and chair (sporting a loaded revolver—just in case) while shouting a series of commands to a pride of seething, barely tamed, snarling tah-tahs. “Up, Betty! Up! Up!”

Which, of course, is not something I’ve ever mentioned to HWSRN, so let’s just keep that between us, shall we?