Life VS Literature (Part Two)

Life vs Literature (Part 2)

Heaving breasts and flowing tresses—okay, what do these two things bring to mind? IN YOUR DREAMS!!! I’m talking about the heroine in a romance novel.
Who came up with the word “heaving” to describe breasts in action anyway? In my mind heaving always brings up the picture of tossing something over the side of a boat. Heave ho and all that pirate talk. The second thing I think of is vomiting, which is also frequently done over the side of a boat. Coincidence? Probably not. I imagine most words have much more colorful origins than we give them credit for. But, I digress. Reviewing one’s most recent meal over the side of a boat is not an image particularly conducive to romance, so why this obsession with heaving?
No matter how attractive it is supposed to be, I have a hard time visualizing myself with heaving breasts. Panting after running upstairs--maybe. Gasping in my faded college sweatshirt after wrestling with the dog to see who will really have the bath--it happens. But those are air shortages.
I don’t think bosoms heave fetchingly when left to their own resources. Maybe old-time whalebone stays and tightly laced corsets help. Being big on comfort myself I don’t see any heaving in my near future.
The other complication is that activities that cause your bosom to heave also lead you to sweat. I know-horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies dew and glow. But no matter what you call it, it is still odoriferous in real life. In books it only gives the characters an attractive sheen. Another major misrepresentation.
Since I knew heaving breasts were out for me, I went for the flowing tresses bit. Easy to do, right? Just let your hair grow. Let me tell you about a few drawbacks not mentioned in the books.
You never read about one of those heroine’s tresses getting caught in the hero’s armpit and the resulting bad language erupting from her ruby red lips as the silken lock is ripped out of her head. They don’t mention her turning over in bed and her hair wrapping around her neck like so many pythons as the night wears on until she wakes up in a panic clawing at the garrote around her throat. How about a simple thing like eating outdoors when there is any breeze at all and a part of one of those tresses that has been repeatedly blowing across her face as she tries to get a bite is accidentally swallowed and she goes into a major gagging fit.
Do any of these scenarios bring the word “pretty” to mind? I think not.
Another point I want to ventilate on is morning breath. Lovers in romance novels greet each other face-to-face after spending a passionate night together and proclaim their undying love. Nice sentiment. You aren’t going to catch me speaking into someone’s face when I first wake up. I have suspicions from the taste in my mouth that kitty used my oral cavity as a sand box while I slept.
I have been able to ignore this in romances that are set in a historical context. Bathing and brushing their teeth weren’t high on the list of their priorities. People had morning breath all day long and were conditioned to it, but what is the excuse in stories set in the U S of A in this day and age? I don’t care how luxuriant a head of hair the woman has, or how big her chest is—morning breath is nasty.
Living in the country, we are surrounded by a natural Romance Novel setting daily. Scenic beauty is a must as a backdrop for all those muscular, glistening hero types and sultry, hair-and-bosom-laden femme fatales. Trouble is, I’ve been keeping an eye out for any Fabio look-alikes and I can’t find any. Closest I have come is a dead-ringer for The Rock that I met in the post office one day. Not too shabby, but never repeated.
I guess the hair alone is just not enough to attract a hero. Maybe I should look into some of those heaving breasts you can buy.