I was a precocious four-year-old girl obsessed with one thing and one thing only: breasts.
It all started in the Racquet Club ladies' locker room after my summer swim lessons. My mother and I were changing, and I looked over and saw the most beautiful things my young eyes had ever beheld.
"Mommy!" I exclaimed, unable to keep such a glorious discovery to myself. "That lady over there has enormous breasts!"
"Katie," my mother chastened, "It's not polite to talk about other people's bodies."
"I know Mommy," I answered, confused as to why one wouldn't want to glorify this abundance day and night. "But they're beeee-uuuuu-ti-ful!"
The woman with the enormous breasts apparently laughed, cutting the tension, and we were able to show our faces at the Racquet Club for summers to come. But, I came to learn that the Goddesses of Female Breast Development (who look, I imagine, a lot like Victoria's Secret Angels) would teach me that talking about other people's bodies has consequences.
So, in 7th Grade, when puberty came, with its usual cruelty of acne, raging hormones and a goodbye, forever, to short shorts, no breasts came with it.
Each time mom and I made a trip to the Nordstrom's Lingerie Department, the result was the same: I didn't really need a bra, yet. So I bought padded ones until, at 18, I finished high school in a lackluster (but not awful) B-cup.
But this was not enough! I was an actress, damnit, and everybody knew that actresses needed boobs. Plus, I was going to college in the fall, and everybody knew, at least all the people who watched "Girls Gone Wild," that college girls really needed boobs.
And thus, chickens entered my life.
Chickens, for those who don't know, are silicone pads that "bounce like real breasts." You can stick them in your leotard or swimming suit and they mold to your skin. They are highly recommended to any and all who were not blessed with... largesse.
They look, not to put too fine a point on it, exactly like raw chicken breasts — hence the nickname.
I hid my chickens from the world, certain I could get away with wearing them for auditions and first dates only, until a dance call in Chicago the summer after my freshman year of college.
A little redhead was dancing her heart out in a pink leotard and jazz pants. She had an open-mouthed smile and was a "sound effects dancer," meaning that she liked to say "hoo" or "zeet" on a big turn, thereby making her dancing more exciting and, frankly, a little turrets-induced.
Everyone was watching her — after all, she was the only one landing her triples and hitting her fouettes dead center — when all of a sudden, in the middle of a split leap, her right chicken came out and hit her in the face.
The redhead didn't miss a beat, she caught the chicken with her left hand, turned the pivot into a sidestep and stuck the chicken back in, still smiling, though a little shakily.
After the music finished, the redhead held her final pose, jazz hands overhead, chest thrust forward, right breast slightly askew.
At this point, I knew two things without a doubt:
1) The redhead would get the part.
2) I was NEVER going to wear my chickens without at least two sports bras to keep 'em in.
"Honey," said the dance captain to the breathless redhead, who, now that the moment was over, was giving way to the powerful instinct to cry like a little girl. "You are so fierce! Just put in your chickens and face the jazz hands."
She went meekly to the mirror at the side and the next dancers came out for their chance, but we all knew the competition was over. The redhead, knowing we'd seen it all, blatantly readjusted while the music began again. She looked only at her reflection in the mirror, which is too bad, because I suddenly really wanted to be her friend and kept trying to catch her eye, to say, "I, too, wear the chickens. I know how you feel."
I was cut shortly afterward (my chickens stayed in, but I fell out of my triple), but I went home inspired. From that day forward, I have worn my chickens with pride in each and every show — even a children's theatre tour where I was a sexually ambiguous shovel.
"Chickens are a way of life!" Newbie exclaimed when one fell out of her bookbag as we waited for Popwhiz's reading to begin. "I've been auditioning all day and I need them. I'm not apologizing for my chickens!"
"Some of us don't need chickens," a smug and well-endowed Trustfunded pointed out.
"Oh, you're just mad because the chickens put us all on an equal playing field," Photochic retorted. "Before we all discovered chickens, you had an advantage, but now we're all the same."
"Anyone can have big boobs now!" I exclaimed.
"But not really," SoapStud disagreed. "Not to be DebbieDowner here ladies, but what happens to the chickens in the bedroom?"
"Oh, well, my chickens are soley for gameday," Hyena explained. "They're only for my showlife, not my social life."
"Exactly," Trustfunded nodded. "But my chickens work for both, because they're always here."
"Kick the flat-chested while they're down why don't you," Newbie protested.
"No, I just think you should be happy with what you have," responded Curlygirl.
"That's because you have big boobs. If you were flat, you'd claw tooth and nail for a good way to fake it."
"There are always implants," SoapStud suggested.
"Puhlease. You've been hanging out with soap stars too long," Hyena retorted. "Like a musical theatre actress can afford implants anyway. Though if wishing made it so..."
"Oh, you'd never do that!" Curlygirl disagreed.
"Why not?" I asked as one who's dreamt of winning the lottery and a subtle and proportionately ideal C-cup. "Everyone wears makeup, people wear spanx, control top pantyhouse, padded bras, chickens — I mean, what's so different about implants?"
"I don't know. It just seems unnatural. Can't guys tell anyway?"
"But who cares? I mean, at least you'd never have to worry about your boob flying out and hitting you in the face during a dance call," I argued.
"That DID NOT happen."
"No, it did!" I said emphatically. I was fighting a losing battle. For years now, I'd been trying to convince my friends — none of whom had attended the redhead chicken dance call — that every chicken-wearer's worst nightmare had come true before my very eyes, and it had changed my life.
"Again, for the millionth time, I don't believe you," Hyena argued. "I mean, I've seen one fall down, you know, so someone has a boob on their tummy, but I've never heard of one flying up. They're too well-made for that."
"Whatever. Think what you want, but I know. It happened! I was there!" I said, sullen.
"Even if it did happen, and I'm not saying it didn't, except that, actually, I'm pretty sure there's no way it did, it would be nice to not have to worry about them moving," said Photochic, making the peace.
"Agreed. Permanent chickens would be nice. Just one less thing to worry about, you know?"
"Totally."
"So, you're all agreed that you want to get implants if you can ever afford it?" SoapStud asked us.
"Yup."
"Probably."
"I might even take out a loan."
"Well then," Stud said haughtily. "My work here is done."
The lights blinked. Popwhiz's reading was ready to begin. We settled into our seats, Newbie checking to make sure her chickens were safely stowed.
Out came a tall blonde in a low-cut black dress for the opening scene. Just like the lady at the Racquet Club, she had enormous breasts.
My flat-chested friends and I sighed like four-year-olds dripping with chlorine-infused water changing in the ladies' locker room after a day of learning to do the Crawl Stroke.
It was really so simple, maybe even more so at age 24 than age four: Everyone is obsessed with large and lovely breasts.
As the blonde (who by the way, was not a great actress) crossed stage left, we got an even better look. Inside each flat-chested girl, a voice whispered, "I know Mommy, but they're beee-uuu-ti-ful!"