Last semester, during finals week, I might have shown the entirety of the first floor of Perkins one of my breasts.
Let me explain. While innocently bent over at my desk in the library, my friend spotted my exposure, tapped me on the shoulder, and politely told me to “do better.” Confused, I looked around—several people were staring at me—and finally, down at what he had noticed. There it was, my lady part: unrestrained, unadulterated and exposed to all of first-floor Perkins. My tank top, apparently, had veered off to the side, giving Venus free rein to unabashedly poke out and declare her heady existence to the world (mercifully, Serena stayed hidden to Perk one throughout the ordeal). Apparently, I had tried to put the “Perk” in Perkins, or something.
As I wondered how long I had been working in Perkins, without anyone alerting me to my stripper status, I came to a somewhat disconcerting epiphany.
Even though several people had seen Venus in all her glory, I realized that I didn’t care. Rather than deep shame or mortification, I felt, well—apathy. I wished the incident had occurred in a more appropriate location, but the exposure ultimately made no difference to my overall daily life at Duke. It was but a small embarrassment, a little blip in what had otherwise been a relatively productive day. And it hadn’t even been too noticeable an event. Other than the several that had stared, most people had not even batted an eyelash, and had gone back to their work just like any other day.
Indeed, my reaction to the entire ordeal—and most observers’ reactions as well—was essentially similar to that of my tumble down the stairs in the French Family Science Center as an overly eager freshman. I was faintly embarrassed, but I didn’t even blush (qualifier: that might just be because I’m Indian, and I have yet to see a brown person visibly blush). I giggled sheepishly about the slip, used it as a humorous anecdote to tell to friends—and by the next day, it was all but forgotten. My friend who had discovered my wardrobe malfunction accepted the excuse that “my life is in shambles,” and allowed me to continue merrily with my life.
Let me just note here that I would probably not purposely engineer this performance. In the TV show “30 Rock,” actress Jenna Maroney of the fictional sketch comedy show “TGS with Tracy Jordan” is perfectly comfortable with flashing her breast to a bouncer in order to get into the social event of the season. I haven’t descended to her level... at least not yet.
If I were a celebrity, it would be different. In 2004, Janet Jackson’s famous Superbowl nipple fiasco made front-page news, and inspired a short-lived trend of nipple piercings. In 2009, Beyonce had a similar nipple disaster in an Oscars show performance with Hugh Jackman that rocked the mainstream media. Yet at the end of 2009, it was Miley Cyrus who had the most searched nip slip of the year, overshadowing even Beyonce.
In this day and age, nipple slips have become relatively frequent, occurring on practically a daily basis. Few female celebrities out there have nipples that remain a mystery to the American public. Nicki Minaj had a nip slip recently on “Good Morning America;” it resulted in an amusing explosion on Twitter, with a bevy of tweets along the lines of “boom bodabum boom that super baseeee, oopps. nipslip.”
For me and the rest us everyday folk, however, life goes on as usual after a nip slip—even for those who observe rather than participate. As one Twitter user put it, dismissing the potency of the nip slip phenomenon “these gurls buggin bout #cameltoe and #nipslip #season but basketball short season almost over too so ladies stfu.”
Indeed, perhaps the general apathy toward every-day, non-celebrity nip slips represents a sort of triumph of daily routine—and, ultimately, community. It’s nice to know that when my left breast, Venus, hangs out in Perkins, unrestrained, few people notice, and those who do ultimately return to their Duke daily grind. Actually, in the spirit of friendship, many university students have admitted to their willingness to do a naked run, to streak just for giggles and experience’s sake. The closeness of our Duke community—our bond through work and friendship—seems to overrule the process of judgment and restraint that comes with things such as nip slips and unwanted exposure. At the end of that long night of studying in Perkins, punctuated by my impromptu performance, I still took my finals with the same rigor of any Duke student. Ultimately, we are judged for who we are.
Still, I’m glad that my wardrobe malfunction was not of the lower variety.
Indu Ramesh is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Wednesday.
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