My best friend Katie and I made a trip to Victoria’s Secret recently. As much as I detest… My best friend Katie and I made a trip to Victoria’s Secret recently. As much as I detest Vicki’s, with its practically transparent, silicone-enhanced models and voracious use of sex as a sales tactic, I admit: I’m a sucker for the semi-annual sale.

Boobs are great things – and I’m not just saying that to endear myself to the male population. I can remember being 12 years old and practically dying to get them. My friends and I would stuff our bras and parade around in our T-shirts and sweaters, marveling at how much such a simple addition changed the look.

Boobs took on a whole new dimension when I was a sophomore in high school. The year was 1997. Three years after Bali introduced it, I discovered The Wonderbra. It lifted, squished and smushed my B-cups until I had mondo cleavage for my first formal dance, where I realized that boobs weren’t just your average accessory like a pair of earrings or a barrette – not just another special touch that your female friends would notice but your boyfriend wouldn’t.

Unlike my jewelry, I didn’t have to force any of the guys to look at my boobs. Boys I spent all day with during class couldn’t take their eyes off them. We’d be talking or dancing and I’d have the urge to shout, “I’m up here!” when their eyes started to wander south.

At first, their stares and stutters made me uncomfortable. But I found that I liked the attention. I grew to appreciate the power my breasts had, looking at them from a whole new perspective. I started to see them as the ultimate accessory. You can wear ’em up, you can wear ’em down. Show ’em, cover ’em up, it’s all up to you. Boobs once again became that simple addition that changed the look.

Breasts are functional, yes. But if we as women can reclaim our nether-regions for our own pleasure, a la the Vagina Monologues, can’t we also reclaim our breasts for all their purposes?

Maybe we’ve already started. I know I’m not the only girl I know who feels sexy and powerful when wearing the perfect lacy bra, even if I’m the only one who knows it’s there.

Which brings me back to Katie and our trip to Vicki’s, her first one ever: During Christmas, Katie had her breasts reduced from a size so large she wouldn’t even admit to a much more manageable 36-C, opening up a whole new world of pretty bras to her.

She did it for physical reasons, but the psychological change I’ve seen in Katie has been astonishing. When she ran into an old friend recently, he said that there was something different about her, but he couldn’t place what. She’d say it was the “improved” boobs. I think it’s the wealth of self-esteem and confidence that came along with them.

We don’t all need to make such a big change to love our boobs. Perhaps loving them will come for some of us when we realize that they give us power. Perhaps it will come standing in front of a mirror naked and realizing that, yes, that is what real breasts are supposed to look like. Maybe it will happen for some when they breastfeed their first baby and realize how natural and vital breasts are. Or maybe – and how un-PC is this – some women will start to love their breasts because their partner’s adoration makes them realize their breasts are beautiful.

Maybe society has sexualized breasts to the point that women can’t enjoy them. But I keep remembering being 12 and recognizing them for what they are – one of the perks of womanhood and a great fashion accessory.

Beth Hommel is a columnist for The Pitt News.