Neta Bar is a 4th year business major (a fact she does not readily share) and Mustang News opinion columnist. The opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect those of Mustang Media Group.
We need to talk about boobs more. And to do so, we must first find the right words. As such, today I write about something we all love, but don’t see a whole lot of. The venue through which we feed our young. Universally adored, but not discussed nearly enough.
Terminology is, of course, crucial for laying the foundation of any feminist issue. And what could be more feminist than conducting discourse about the right way to refer to a pair of breasts? For the sake of respect. Read on for a linguistic interpretation of the best part of the female anatomy, from a purely objective, wholly appreciative lens.
Breasts
When you close your eyes and imagine a pair of “breasts,” you can’t quite see anything too vivid, am I right? These are the elusive pair out of the bunch. A pair of breasts are respectful; they’re understated but self-assured. They listen to classical music not to be pretentious but for genuine enjoyment. They’re aware of their power but feel no need to leverage it unless absolutely appropriate. Breasts are like the friend who stays quiet, for the most part, but once they speak it usually turns out to be a golden nugget of truth that comes out of their mouth. The breast is as esoteric as it is admired.
Knockers
Of all the options in the breast-describing vernacular, I believe that sporting a pair of knockers is the highest honor. These are boobs that command their due regard. You might figuratively lower your sunglasses, offer a subtle nod of approval. And this would be the only suitable response. Knockers are audacious, they are rambunctious, and I imagine them to be perpetually nestled charmingly in a push-up bra. Knockers are – or, more accurately, should be – shown off in perpetuity. Owners of knockers that keep them inconspicuous are committing sacrilege on the daily. I say this as an outsider of the big breasted community, acknowledging that I will never fully understand a knocker’s woes. I say this with utmost appreciation for the importance of female bodily autonomy, and too, a burning disdain for the objectification of the feminine figure. And unending respect for feminism. And boobs. And women.
Jugs
To me, “jugs” are a pleasant surprise. They’re the boobs that you don’t quite see coming.
Heavy, dense, powerful – the potential here feels intimidating, almost. Jugs have a more mature, perhaps even older aura about them. All in the metaphorical sense, of course. If jugs were personified, they’d be a weathered woman who has stories to tell. Despite being a decisively republican-coded term, these anthropomorphized jugs are apolitical and won’t hear a word about it. They are spunky. They are dauntless. Their drink of choice would be an IPA at the bar, and they sleep with blue collar men when they have the time.
Boobs
The classic. The OGs. The universally satisfying. There’s never any disagreement here. ‘Boobs’ provide a little more of a neutral approach to this facet of the female anatomy; perhaps attributable to those who don’t really want their boobs to be perceived. If you were trying to compliment someone’s boobs, or say anything substantial about them at all, you wouldn’t call them boobs. To refer to them as such would reduce any sentiment to a neutral, sexless statement. But make no mistake, tasteful as they are, even ‘boobs’ can move mountains. They can perform miracles. Start wars. Change lives.
Boobies
‘Boobies’ and ‘boobs’ are sisters, not twins. They are each entirely distinct, and it was paramount that I designate ‘Boobies’ to a category of their own. They are unequivocally on the more petite side, but this does not take away from their influence by any means. They can still pack a punch. When boobs are ‘boobies,’ their personality is campy, fun; they carry a little more pizzazz. Their go-to karaoke song is Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Notwithstanding, I would personally discourage usage of this particular term, as it calls to mind the image of a prepubescent training bra.
Rack
While the rest of the options in our vernacular are plural, ‘rack’ is an entity singular in nature. The pair of boobs in a “rack,” so to speak, are seasoned in their disposition. They’ve been around the block – gone through some shit, and have stories to tell because of it. In the more corporeal sense, a rack is sizeless, but always impressive, without fail. That is to say, when considering a rack, you will be met with a range of volume and breadth, from backache-inducing to fun-size, but this pair will be unequivocally dignified. And too, an awe-inspiring sight.
Tits
Tits are emblematic of something much bigger than themselves. These are the male gaze bombshell boobs, the paragon of the sexualized female body. The ones you might see when you close your eyes and imagine breasts in the context of sexualized moments in film and television. Or perhaps other forms of visual media. I find that this word is a bit of a copout; unimaginative and quick to be used for something that is so much more. I find, too, that ‘tits’ have been gentrified most by men out of the selection. Tits are valiant, they are unencumbered, they are eloquent and they are grand. I put forth that we reclaim this term. I propose that we take tits back.
I think about boobs and my chest swells with joy and warmth. I think about them, and I am invigorated with a renewed hope and appreciation for the world. Colors are more vivid, music sounds better. I’ll shout it from the rooftops: I love them – all of them, regardless of size, shape, or lore – in the fullest sense of the word. Jugs, knockers, what have you. There’s not one bad way to have boobs.