Here, These Nipple Tassels will Jog Your Mammary

I met up for beers with my friend, Joe, yesterday. He is currently participating in “Movember”- a Mens Health Awareness month in which the most masculine (i.e. hairy) testicle-possessors grow out their 'staches to new and creative lengths in an attempt to raise money and attention for prostate cancer research. Joe was successful on both accounts, however if you measure the attention qualitatively, I am sure we can all agree being called “creep” and “child molester” are less than desirable responses.

It made me wonder, though, at the different ways men and women “raise awareness” for their gender-specific causes. Joe and all of his friends signed up to participate in this “Movember” drive, and it became like any other testosterone-driven competition like snot-rocket shoot-outs or hand-stand beer-bonging. Namely, who can look the stupidest the longest. As Joe mused over the organic make-up of his upper lip hair which allowed it to be so effectively and stylishly cut by his teeth, I couldn't help but feel not only disgust (he was eating his mustache!) but jealousy.
When I got home I checked out the website on-line. It's a completely irreverent and completely successful event to corroborate in the fight against a serious issue, prostate cancer. The creators hope to change the usual reluctance and irregularity of men's doctor check-ups by “making[ing] men's health fun” and “putting the Mo [mustache] back on the face of American men.” (The Official Movember Website, http://us.movember.com/whatismov/content/What-is-Movember/) The site mentions Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan and Borat as their ideal Mo-sporters.

I then checked out the Breast Cancer Site for a quick comparison and was overwhelmed by the pink color scheme which gave the impression that some diabolical and congested child had puked copious amounts of Pepto-Bismol all over my screen. There were no cool events with heroes like Hulk Hogan or ridiculous pictures of men in Aviators, gold chains, half-turtle necks and Fu Manchus, which I guess means that women are just classier in the way they deal with cancer. There are tons of walks that happen all the time, all over the place. These walk events are “a great way to show your support for the cause,...[build] community and [raise] awareness” and “make important strides in the fight against breast cancer!” You can also buy your Breast Cancer Awareness gear in the “Gifts and Delights” section. Don't forget to purchase your “Real Men Wear Pink” t-shirts.

We women fight nobly for our causes. We strap on symbolic pink ribbons and march in solidarity, we hold Oprah's hand and anything into which we can blow our noses. We sing songs. We hug. Where's the fun in that? And, more importantly, where is Borat?

Now, as a touchy-feely, everyone-share-their-feelings kind of woman, I am sort of playing devil's advocate. But only sort of.

I'm not just talking about revolutionizing the way women deal with fund-raising, though that certainly could be a start. Consider for a moment how much more fun would be had at a Breast Cancer Awareness walk if everyone was handed a free pair of nipple tassels? What if, then, nipple tassels became the new pink ribbon and working women at the office all banded together and strapped on their sparkly chest ornamentation to their once drab blouses and hedged bets on who could last the longest and/or win that free trip to San Francisco for the “Hangin' In Their: Breast Cancer Nipple Tassel Gala Event” complete with guest appearances from Gwen Stefani and Hole's Courtney Love. Breast Cancer Awareness Events could be the new Carnaval with an altruistic twist!

Maybe these same adventurous women could make t-shirts that combine all the harrowing facts about cancer normally delivered rather depressingly and instead write catchy phrases such as “Let me jog your mammary-- every 2 minutes a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.” I'm envisioning maybe a picture of a large, levitated, Salvador-Dali-ish breast with a dog collar and leash and the owner calling out, from the mysterious world beyond the t-shirt, “C'mom, Mammary, time for a jog!”

But before I take an even deeper nose-dive into irreverence and really piss off a lot of nice women, I think we have to move beyond just the way we fund-raise and get at the deeper issue, here. Men understand something that perhaps their historical privilege has facilitated more expediently than for their female counterparts: Our bodies are FUNNY.

They get that it's a riot when someone farts, especially when it's your grandma, and especially when she looks surprised afterward. It's funny when a sneeze overtakes us and we are left with the carnage of mucous splattered across our neighbors leather coat. It's funny when our feet forget to pay heed to the laws of gravity and stumble into puddles, parking meters, and piles of horse shit. There is nothing more funny than reality, especially ours, because we can appreciate the value of self-deprecation!

And men seem to get this in a way that women still can't, or aren't allowed to. They find the sight of their trotting bodies bouncing in the early morning breeze giggle-worthy, and the more apparent each appendage (and I'm not talking arms, here), the more they revel in the hilarity of it all. Women tend not to laugh at each other when running, and those that do generally have no friends. Men can also manipulate their bodies and publicly display these ridiculous mutations to find joy, i.e. Joes' creeper 'stache. I don't know many women who stylize their armpit hair as a gag, or let that unibrow grow to win a bet.

But maybe we should!

So why don't we? Men seem to have an awful lot of fun farting and sneezing and drinking and peeing and we're stuck holding hands and crying on the side lines.
I think a lot of it goes back to perceptions of women as beautiful things. We were appreciated for our womanly charms, pinched and squeezed and sutured into ambulatory art forms whose every move and word was choreographed to fit the image men had made for us. Our bodies were not our own-- we could not revel in our toe nails, our tail bones, the soft patch of down on the upper lip. We could not giggle at the sweet earthen smell of our armpits in the morning, or the layer of dirt that snuck under our breasts at the end of a long, vigorous day. We had to hide these small wonders, these subtle jokes meant to be shared together. But instead we sprinkled powders and potions and consumed chemicals, trying to erase these comical human aspects and, in the process, losing the ability to love and celebrate them. If we weren't perfect in our soft, clean, supple serenity, we were not doing our jobs right as women and we were therefore akin to devil-workers.

Whew, this got depressing real fast. I don't mean to sound all fire-and-brimstone about the state of womens' psyche. I am talking about history, here, something which is a part of our cultural memory but remains merely that-- a memory. Certainly we see manifestations of this memory in our lives today, but these incidences are not as pronounced. As a sex, we have come a long way, fighting hard from corsets to jeans, from suffragists to Secretaries of State. I am pleased and proud.

But we have more to accomplish, ladies. And one thing that I want for myself, for us, for my granddaughters, is a renewed love (and a self-deprecating one!) of our bodies. Maybe it's too early for nipple tassels at Breast Cancer rallies, but I'd be happy if you'd laugh at my butt wobble in jogging shorts.