Remember when crack was hailed as the new cleavage? Seemed like yesterday, so I was surprised to find the notion had surfaced as early as 2002--although iterations on the same theme have persisted into 2004 and 2008. Shannon Rupp, author of the 2004 article, entitled "Plumbing the History of the New Cleavage: Low-slung trousers are hot but I see a bad moon rising," relates that one of her colleagues blames Madonna for the sorry state of society's fashion; an unfair charge, according to Rupp, although she does credit the Material Girl with popularizing underwear as outerwear.
If that's the case, should we hold Janet Jackson accountable for this summer's outbreak of boobage? I know it's been over 4 years since the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" (I only know that because I discovered it via Wikipedia), but like everything else pop culture, fashion cycles stretch out a few years, don't they?
Meredith Blake seems to think that fashion is pursuing a new demureness. I'm not convinced. Everywhere I look--and I don't mean to stare, but there they are, I'm surrounded--we're not talking mere cleavage anymore; no, this has progressed beyond cleavage to boobage. It's no longer a hint, it's a full frontal onslaught--full being the operative word here. If the current décolletage were a skirt, the slit would sit above the hip. Ha, if the current trend continues, Cretan corsetry will be next.
It's downright embarrassing, but I'm now more deft at noticing boobage than my husband. Mind you, it requires no keen observational skills these days. It makes me want to sew dickeys into the tops of all these meagrely clad women. Never before have I considered myself a prude; decorous, OK, but not prudish. After all, whom did Raechelle (of all people!) warn against leaning over the reception desk when wearing a certain deep blue blouse?
Maybe I'm just jealous, in my advanced 39-forever state, of all those pretty young women with their flawless creamy white or milk chocolatey bosoms.
Whew. Thanks for letting me get this off my chest.
