Too Much

by Gwen Prince

I was at a family reunion over the weekend. The first one we’ve held in two years since COVID began:; it was a special occasion. We hired a balloon animal artist as entertainment. I love balloon animals, which I don’t think is odd for an 18 year old girl.

I waited in line for 20 minutes with bated breath. I needed a Yoda balloon. But what if the artist couldn’t make Yoda? I constructed a back up plan in my mind. If he can’t make Yoda, I’ll ask for a frog. Simple enough.

Excitement roiling, surrounded by family and festivities, I approached the front of the line.

“What’ll it be for you?” Asked the artist, a mid 40s, deeply tanned and blonde white man.

“Can you make a Yoda?” I asked, concerned my request might be too much.

This was my first mistake, yet a habit of mine. Always concerned if I was asking too much of someone. Always willing to accommodate, to retreat. Like I was too big to fit into most spaces. Like I was too much of myself.

“Yeah, of course I can make Yoda. Are you a Star Wars fan?”

Thank God, I thought.

“Yeah, I’m a huge fan!”

“Oh, have you watched the new Obi-Wan show yet?”

“Yes, I loved it!”

“You loved it?” He asked, barely masking his condescension, “I didn’t think it was all that great.”

This is where I made my second mistake. I thought I had made a misstep in the conversation. That I had said something wrong, that I was being too much. How could I backtrack to please him? How could I make myself moldable enough for this stranger? How could I fit myself into a smaller, more palatable box?

I started by trying to explain myself.

“Well, I really liked how they depicted Obi-Wan’s relationship with Anakin…” at this point I trailed off. He was no longer listening to me.

Sure, maybe he was focused on making the balloon. Maybe he just wasn’t interested in Star Wars. Or maybe I’m making excuses again for a stranger to whom I owe nothing.

Defeat clouded my head. Had I truly said something so wrong? I had seen my dad rattle on with strangers for hours about Star Wars or Marvel or any type of predominantly male-consumed media. Why couldn’t I do the same?

I looked back at the stranger. He wasn’t focusing on the balloon, wasn’t talking to someone else in line, wasn’t even attempting to make small talk with me. He was staring at my boobs. A line of children waited behind us. My balloon was still being formed in his hands.

Ah, I thought. I hadn’t misstepped. I hadn’t needed to be more palatable. Nothing I actively did derailed the conversation, or made him think less of me. He already thought less of me the moment he saw me, with my cheery smile and dress stretched across my chest. Anything I did after that was in vain.

Defeat became replaced by sheer humiliation. Not for him, but for myself. Of course he didn’t actually want to speak to me. Of course he didn’t care about my opinions on Star Wars. While I was so preoccupied with being just enough of myself for this stranger, I had let my guard down. I had let myself become naive enough to think that I could be simply a girl ordering a balloon. But I would always be the girl with double Ds before I was anything else.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I’ve worn tight tops before, in front of strangers I’ve been too quick to trust. Yet every time this does happen, every time I feel too vulgar for just existing, I’m somehow surprised. And then the surprise gives way to embarrassment because I should’ve seen it coming.

The innate sexualization of the female form is nothing new. It’s existed since the dawn of time, since Eve, ashamed and disgraced, hid her body away from Adam’s gaze. But it is relatively new for me. I’ve always been pretty nerdy, so being thought of as a sexual being at all was foreign to me. But being thought of as a sexual being by this man, this stranger, in front of my family? At a public event? The idea of this never would have even crossed my mind if I hadn't been forced to confront it. I was just a teenage girl who wanted a balloon-animal; there was no ulterior motive. 

But at face value, the world does not see that. They see a young girl, with big boobs and probably too much naivety in her expression. They see something to be commodified, something to be possessed. I’ve been told not to wear dresses or skirts or shirts that reveal too much of myself, because the world is constantly clawing to see more. Don’t ever show too much.

This isn’t something I’ve truly taken much note of until this year. I’m heading to college, attending interviews and scholarship luncheons that require more business casual attire than I own. I’ve found it’s quite difficult to dress “business appropriate” when you have boobs.

Because when you do have big boobs, when aspects of your body are seen as desirable, the commodification cannot be turned off like a light switch. Throwing on a blazer doesn’t reverse centuries of sexualization. No matter how I present my body, it will first and foremost be seen as a commodity, as something vulgar. It’s funny to me how the desires of a man translate to the fault of a woman.

What’s worse, though, is that I feed into it. There’s no way to not feed into it. I like fashion, I like picking out the right outfit to suit my tastes and my body. I like curling my hair and wearing makeup. I like looking nice. And I like being noticed for looking nice.

So how could I not blame myself? How could I underestimate the hidden sexual agenda of a stranger while also wearing a push-up bra? It feels hypocritical to blame society for sexualizing me when it feels like I’m doing it myself. This is what they want us to think. It is what I have been trained to think. I should be ashamed for provoking this man, for showing too much of myself. This is the danger of teaching modesty; you tell girls to hide parts of themselves and they start believing it’s best to hide all of themselves. And then they take the blame for seeming too sexual or too feminine.

But then again, being feminine is usually meant as being dainty or delicate or precious or fragile or whatever kind of synonym you want to use for “weak.” It’s why women with big boobs or a big butt or perhaps a big body in general are considered provocative. They are feminine, but almost too much so. They cannot be described as weak or dainty, yet they are still women. So how does the world choose to classify them? As being sexy. But you see, this sexualization is not detachable. It stays with me, with all women that cannot be considered “precious.” We will never be considered childlike again, or treated with the innocence that comes with a dainty appeal. We cannot discuss Star Wars without our boobs getting in the way. And therein lies the constant battle of femininity.

I don’t know if there will ever be a way for femininity to be separate from vulgarity, not when a woman’s societal identity is so steeped in both. But that’s the key to womanhood, I think. It is a lifestyle of contradictions. We must achieve beauty, but it must also be effortless. We must be intellectual but not argumentative. Even in the physical sense, we must contradict ourselves by having a tiny waist while also having a huge ass. There is no victory for us.

Which is why it feels like defeat when I do not immediately gain the approval of a man I don’t even know. I think I will always feel as if I am too much, because I will always be a woman. I will always be vulgar simply because I am feminine; I cannot extract one from the other. So what do I do? Do I wade through life, sifting through strangers until I stumble across a few that won’t immediately see my body before they know my mind? Do I not make conversation about Star Wars in fear that my opinions will be diminished by my body? How will I ever achieve anything if my capabilities are only taken at face value?

I don’t know any of these answers. I only know that I am who I am, that I cannot control anything beyond that. I forget this fact most days. Which is why I’m always compounding myself into just the right size for everyone around me. I squeeze myself into pockets and corners of acceptance, always feeling a bit too big for the skin that I’m in. Always feeling as if I am too much.