Though I still have no idea what I'll be doing in 50+ hours on All Hallows Eve, I have already managed to turn a simple holiday with actually rather disturbing origins (no mocking of evil spirits or throwing of sacrificed animal bones into ritual bonfires for this girl!) into a delusion of grandeur about my femininity by making a ridiculous resolution to go where Katedunn has never gone before... embracing my inner whore.
Don't get too excited/horrified. It's no secret that I am not nor have ever been privy to supermodel measurements. You won't see me in a Sexy Maid shortskirt or tight, plunging Kill Bill yellow pantsuit (actually, I do LOVE Uma Thurman and all things samauri, as well as Asics Onitsuka Tigers, so we'll think about that for next Halloween. One year at a time, please...). However, I will make use of what the Universe gave me, and embrace what is no secret either... my rack.
I've been thinking a lot lately about my aversion to being a lady and showing off my humps, my lovely lady lumps. I'm not entirely sure when it started, but, like all maladies, I can only assume it has its root in childhood. As a young girl, I was very tomboyish and, just, generally weird. I played with boy toys just as equally as I played House and Barbies. I danced and ice skated, but I also ended up kicking ass as a soccer goalie and throwing discus in high school. I even played rugby for a little while. Earlier though, I liked to read Sweet Vally High books before I went down to the basement to build models with my dad. DIGRESSION AHEAD: One of which was the Titanic. I slaved over this model for months, getting Super Glue on my fingers (eek!) before I was finally able to display it proudly at the foot of my lacy pink bed, which inevitably resulted in a bunch of the smokestacks and little gizmos and things getting broken off. So, because my anality couldn't allow me to continue displaying a defective model in my bedroom, and also because I'm apparently secretly evil, I took the model into the bathtub with me one night and re-enacted the sinking of the Titanic. I tore the damn thing in half and watched it float around in the bathwater, imagining all the tiny little victims drowning in Mr. Bubble instead of cold, cold seawater. Somehow, I felt better about that scenario than the mind-boggling reality of the event. Anyhow. Back to being androgynous.
So, I always felt like a tomboy, and thus I felt really silly whenever I tried to act "girly." I don't consider myself girly at all, but close friends have crucified me over this often over the years as, in fact, I lack all manner of aggression and can be a puss-puss. And I'm good at wearing makeup and I'm curvy and all that jazz. So it doesn't really add up the way I think it does.
I never felt like showing off my boobs because I never really knew what to do with them. I got my period at age 11 and two weeks later I had boobs. I felt awkward and confused about them (because I was 11, for christ's sake) and I suppose I just got used to that sort of relationship with my boobs. I never ever wanted cleavage to be a factor in my character or in my interactions with others, males and females alike. I always associated exaggerated top-heaviness with vapidity and trying way too hard to vie for attention. Makes me think of wenches in medieval inns being nothing more than dumpsters for scurvied semen. It's one thing if the boobings are hard to control because one is just busty, but quite another to be pushing them up and out with push-up bras and open necklines, especially if one is said busty. I just never felt comfortable with this. And regardless of the reasoning of a person's level of comfort, no one should ever feel uncomfortable with their bodies in such a wholly avoidable manner. If a tamer bra and a higher neckline is all that stands between me and self-respect, I will go for that. Otherwise, it lacks sincerety and I run the risk of trying to be what I am not, i.e.; explicit in my sexuality. Subtle sexuality is more interesting anyway, and besides, (not coincidentally) the periods in my life where I acted more openly busty were times that I wasn't feeling too hot about being Katedunn. I've treated my body not-so-good for quite some time and am doing a lot of atonement for it. This is my time to Fake the Funk, as it were. The next logical step in this shedding of skin is to wear a lot of red lipstick, curl my hair, and unleash my cleavage on the greater Chicago area. Yes, We Can Do It. And we, meaning my masculine and my feminine half, will do it as Busty Rosie the Riveter: Bustress.
I'll leave you with the poster we've all grown to know and love, but point out that the Norman Rockwell painting on the right is the actual original Rosie the Riveter. The WWII propaganda on the left has been confused with the painting and referred to by its title throughout the years. She's been confused, like me. She's feeling empowered, like me. She's feminine in a masculine shell. Er, the exact opposite of me. I am comfortable with that. Like I'm comfortable with my new lease on costuming. Slutty Halloween, 2008! I hope to see you so you can join me on my journey toward self-girlifying. Next time, some Vagina Monologues.
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