This week's episode of the TV show I'm working on centers completely around a woman's chest and our protagonist's obsession therein. In fact, nearly every male character featured in the episode is infatuated with this female character's cleavage.
I've been in the middle of this all week, there for every single take. I've sat through all the jokes, both scripted and unscripted. I've weathered all the innuendo by crew and entourage. It's giving me a headache. I can't imagine what it's like for the actress who plays our amply-endowed object of desire.
Through all this I've realized, I just don't get it.
I mean, boobs are pretty. I'm a big fan of boobs but really, but if a hefty chest is all that a woman has, then she ain't got much.
Off the top of my head, I can think of at least a dozen attributes that trump tits: legs, for one, smile, for another, plus eyes, scent, back, tattoos, voice, the small of the back, the nape of the neck, and let's not forget brains, eloquence and a reckless disregard for social propriety.
Now, if I can find a woman who has all these things plus a great set of knockers, all the better, but really, let's understand our priorities here.