As the proud owner of a pair of thankfully healthy and intact, very average size though definitely feeling the force of gravity breasts that seem to coordinate reasonably well with the rest of my body, I have to confess my complete confusion over why 296,000 American women had cosmetic breast augmentation last year. What is it about breasts? Who decided bigger is better?

Yesterday on my Southwest flight from Oakland one of the flight attendants had almost certainly undergone augmentation and it was nearly impossible to notice any other part of her being. I think she was in her 40s or 50s—I can’t be sure because she was wearing a yellow shirt and with the light reflected off those gigantic knockers I could hardly see anything else—which is why I’m pretty sure she’d had help, because nobody over 40 has huge bosoms that are that perky without help. And I think she was nice but I can’t be sure because I was trying so hard not to stare at her gigantic protuberance that I couldn’t really focus on our conversation.

You may think I’m sour grapes but I’ve been there, done that, and it wasn’t my idea of fun. I went on birth control pills for a short time back in the day before they had perfected the chemistry (at least as much as they have yet) and my breasts suddenly jumped two cup sizes. I did not enjoy having to buy dresses two sizes larger to accommodate my ample bosom, and I certainly didn’t enjoy the fact that nobody looked me in the eyes for a couple of years.

Surgical reconstruction? Definitely. Raisins on a breadboard? Sure, I can see it. But for the average-sized healthy-breasted woman? I just don’t get it.