\n<\/p>\n
It must have been over a decade ago that a friend, at lunch time, grabbed my hands and asked me to feel her newly acquired bosom. \u201cCheck out my new boobs,\u201d she giggled happily. \u201cGot them in Korea. Don\u2019t they feel real? I\u2019ve always wanted bigger ones!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n They felt real, alright. As a liberal, open-minded person, that was probably one of very few times I was genuinely taken aback, but I celebrated the delightful acquisition with her. It was a victory of sorts. And I haven\u2019t felt up another woman\u2019s boobs since.<\/span><\/p>\n Of late, the times I\u2019ve discussed breasts with my female friends have been on a rather more sombre note \u2013 <\/span>breast cancer<\/span>, mastectomy, reconstruction.<\/span><\/p>\n Ironically, it took illness for us to break through the barriers or taboos to openly discuss what our breasts mean to us; awareness and open discussions forged through illness later in life.<\/span><\/p>\n In our 20s and 30s, our breasts are fodder for gossip and sexualised by the male gaze. I recall an incident in the early noughties when I was called into my boss\u2019s office to chat about my dress.<\/span><\/p>\n Despite working at a fashion magazine, I was asked if I had been wearing a bra that day. Under a stylish (at least I thought it was) black dress, modestly covered in the front with a slightly wider armhole, I went braless simply because the cut called for it.<\/span><\/p>\n Next thing I knew, I was summoned to the office to talk about <\/span>the dress<\/span><\/em> that revealed a bit of side-boob (yes, I rocked the side-boob before \u201cside-boob\u201d became a thing). The dress that, in someone\u2019s words, brought \u201ca bunch of guys perving at my side-boob around my desk\u201d, which I was blissfully unaware of while typing away at my computer.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n