“Why don’t you just get your boobs done?”
That’s a thing someone actually said to me. Recently. I was joking with a coworker about being absent the day they handed out endowments — this is my brand of self-deprecating humor 🤷🏼♀️ — so I guess I asked for it. But still…
You can tell the speaker does not know me AT ALL.
“You’re really cute! You just need some Botox!”
That one is a blast from my past as a reporter. It came from a consultant who’d worked in TV news and was ostensibly trying to give me advice so I could elevate my on-camera game. I spent the last six years of my journalism career telling visual stories, and being in my late 30s/early 40s with the beauty sensibilities of a sports-writing — and sports-playing — tomboy, my sun-weathered face was apparently too craggily to be taken seriously in the realm of HD video.
But me? Botox? I was like, “If that’s what it takes to advance in this industry, I think I’m good crawling around on dusty gym floors and dodging referees out on frigid high school football fields for the rest of my life!”
🪦 <— Here lies that job. RIP. 😢
And look at me today: Sitting in a cubicle, or on a couch, usually wearing 10-year-old hoodies and stretched-out leggings, anonymously typing out marketing copy to scrape out a living while prepping for grad school and trying to figure out what I really want to do when I grow up.
Rest assured, my vocation will not depend on bra size or require any kind of aesthetic alterations. I’d prefer it didn’t require a bra at all, but anyway…

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