Taking My Boobs to France

       When I went on a school trip to France in 11^th grade, the (rather strict, and not at all French) French teacher who led the trip felt a need to relentlessly prepare us for the world of thievery and judgment that was supposedly France. Among her vendettas? “I don’t want to see any cleavage! Cleavage is not acceptable in French culture! Not an inch of skin!”

           
              Frankly I still have no idea if this is true or not; I suspect not, and I’m pretty sure there are prudes in every culture who dislike seeing cleavage on total strangers. But at the time, I didn’t want to make waves or send the wrong impression, so I packed my most hideous, frumpy clothes. I simply didn’t own anything that I felt cute in where I could guarantee NO glimpse of cleavage. Even in a well fitted, FULL-CUP bra, there always seemed to be a few inches escaping. So I only packed clothes in which I felt uncomfortable and unattractive.

                 I also brought a selection of hideous scarves, which I tied around my neck to hide any errant cleavage that might escape. I love scarves now, but back then I didn’t know what kind to buy or how to tie them, so the overall effect was quite unfashionable. Now I look back and regret taking the teacher so seriously; no one else took her seriously. I wish I’d had the courage to pack the clothes I felt the happiest in, even if my boobs were hanging out, because it would have felt extra-nice to feel beautiful in France.

             My flatmates and I just booked tickets for a trip to Paris in January. As we did, I felt a thrill of excitement knowing that this time around I'm old enough to make my own choices about how I present myself. I'm going to pack the clothes I feel the most comfortable in, and yeah, that's probably going to include a little bit of cleavage.