Yesterday, I was sitting at the pool with a friend, periodically looking up to make sure our children were still somewhere in the water and had not required the intervention of a lifeguard, when I noticed something. Actually, that is not entirely accurate. I realized I had been noticing something for quite some time without comprehending that I had noticed it. I looked around the pool, looked back at my friend and asked the only reasonable question that could come from such an observation: Where did everybody’s boobs go? She looked around too and immediately understood what I meant. Three years ago, I had sat at this very same pool, probably on this very same lounge chair, at this admittedly bougie health club and seriously contemplated whether I needed breast implants because nearly every woman who walked past me seemed to have these beautiful, round, gravity-defying breasts that appeared to have absolutely no relationship with childbirth, breastfeeding, age or Sir Isaac Newton. I remember looking down at my own perfectly adequate but decidedly unenthusiastic 34A situation and thinking, Am I supposed to be doing something about this?

I think most women, if we are being honest, have had some version of this conversation with themselves. Maybe yours wasn’t about boobs, but spend enough time surrounded by women who all seem to have the same lips, eyebrows, eyelashes, handbag, waistline or breasts and eventually you start wondering whether perhaps you are the one who missed a meeting. I certainly considered the boobs. I researched the boobs. I probably stood sideways in the mirror and lifted the boobs into various positions while imagining the boobs. Ultimately, however, I decided breast augmentation wasn’t worth the risks for me and reluctantly accepted that God, genetics and two breastfed children had collectively decided that 34A was going to be my testimony. No judgment whatsoever toward anyone who made a different decision. Baby, get the boobs. Lift the boobs. Reduce the boobs. Do whatever you need to do with your boobs to feel fabulous when you take your clothes off. I simply decided to leave mine alone, never realizing that apparently I did not need plastic surgery at all. I just needed to wait three years for my breasts to come back into fashion.

Naturally, once my friend confirmed that she too had noticed the disappearing boobs, I began researching the phenomenon right there from my lounge chair. Because research, baby. And do you know who had answers for me? National Geographic. Yes, National Geographic. The people who taught us about emperor penguins, ancient civilizations and the annual migration of wildebeest across the Serengeti are apparently also keeping tabs on American breasts. According to statistics from the American Society of Plastic Surgeons, breast augmentation procedures dropped 14.9 percent in 2020 while breast implant removals increased 34.4 percent. Explant procedures increased another 9 percent in 2023 and have remained elevated since. Celebrities including Angela White, formerly known as Blac Chyna, SZA, Chrissy Teigen, K. Michelle, Cardi B and Amber Rose have also publicly discussed removing implants or reversing other cosmetic enhancements. I was fascinated. There was data. There were surgeons. There were celebrities. There was National Geographic. My little 34As had apparently found themselves in the middle of a legitimate cultural movement.

The more I read, the clearer it became that the aesthetic pendulum really has swung away from the very obvious 2000s and 2010s body. You know exactly which body I mean. Huge breasts, impossibly tiny waist, huge bottoms, eyelashes that created their own breeze and lips that arrived at the restaurant several minutes before the rest of the woman. Everything was exaggerated, polished and very clearly purchased. The entire aesthetic seemed to say, Money has been spent here, and I would appreciate you noticing. Now the goal appears to be something much more understated: smaller breasts, natural movement, excellent skin, less obvious filler, smaller BBLs, strong bodies, beautiful teeth that don’t immediately scream VENEERS, and faces that, brace yourselves …. actually move when people smile. Even breast augmentation has entered its quiet-luxury era. There are apparently terms being used like “yoga boobs” and “ballerina breasts,” because naturally we needed branding for small breasts. The new boob job is essentially a boob job designed to convince everyone that you never had a boob job. Got it!

Well, once I discovered that I could now walk confidently around the pool knowing that my complete lack of breast augmentation was not merely natural but potentially fashionable, I needed to know what else was trending. Obviously you do too because you are still reading an essay that began with me staring at women’s breasts at a swimming pool. This is how I ended up reading about something sociologists call inconspicuous consumption, which is essentially the academic way of saying that rich people have once again changed the dress code without sending the rest of us an email. For years, wealth was relatively easy to identify because the entire point was for you to identify it. Big house, big car, big watch, big logo, big boobs, big lips, big everything. If someone spent $8,000 on something, for God’s sake, you were going to know that $8,000 had been spent. But when enough people gain access to the same handbag, cosmetic procedure, car or aesthetic, the thing itself stops communicating exclusivity. So the signal moves.

Now we have Pilates bodies, excellent skin, preventative medicine, good sleep and women wearing rings that tell them whether they slept well because apparently waking up and deciding how you feel is no longer scientifically rigorous enough. We aren’t supposed to look starved anymore; we’re supposed to look strong, rested, moisturized and like we eat organic sourdough while knowing our exact daily protein requirements. Time has become part of the flex too. Someone cleaning your house, delivering your groceries or watching your children isn’t really about those individual services; what you are actually purchasing is the ability to have absolutely nothing you need to do at noon on a Tuesday. Travel signals the same thing. There was a period when we raced through Europe like someone was going to lock the continent behind us: London Monday, Paris Tuesday, Rome Thursday, Barcelona Friday, forty-seven photographs and a urinary tract infection because nobody wanted to waste valuable sightseeing time finding a bathroom. Yes, this happened to me. Now someone casually says, “We rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard for three weeks.” Three weeks? Do you not have jobs? Apparently that is precisely the point.

Even our homes and clothes are quieter. The expensive house now has books, original art, old furniture and some slightly crooked ceramic bowl that looks like it should have cost $17 but was actually purchased from a 94-year-old artisan whose family has been making pottery since the Ethiopian Empire. Naturally, you cannot order another one online because that would destroy the entire point. And somehow we have arrived at the $900 beige sweater with no logo, no sparkle and absolutely no evidence that anyone should have paid $900 for it. It simply sits there looking beige while the correct people apparently recognize what it is. I love this so much because it may be an even more sophisticated form of showing off: I don’t need everyone to know this is expensive. I only need other expensive people to know this is expensive. Even privacy has become part of the aesthetic. You don’t need to show us every vacation, handbag, dinner, game night with friends, birthday party, child, closet and occasionally far more of your marriage than any of us requested. You just disappear every August and return looking suspiciously rested.

Which somehow brings me right back to boobs. Think about the Louis Vuitton Neverfull. There was a time when carrying one said something very particular. Then everybody wanted one, everybody bought one, somebody’s aunt found one at a thrift store that may or may not actually exist, and eventually the bag stopped automatically communicating exclusivity. Cosmetic procedures have done something similar. When obvious enhancement was relatively rare, it signaled money. When everybody started getting the same boobs, lips, teeth and bottom, the signal changed, and now we are apparently spending extraordinary amounts of money to look as though absolutely no money has been spent at all. Of course, “effortless” is often unbelievably expensive. The peaceful house may have a housekeeper, the glowing skin may have a dermatologist, the effortless body may have a trainer and the woman who naturally wakes up rested, toned, moisturized and emotionally regulated may actually have an entire small-business ecosystem quietly supporting the illusion.

Maybe that is where luxury ultimately ends up: not bigger, louder or more obvious, but simply easier. Having enough money, time and support that you don’t need everyone else to know you have money, time and support. And perhaps calmness, peace and happiness are the ultimate luxuries because, annoyingly, those are the things money cannot reliably purchase. You can buy the Birkin but you cannot buy contentment. You can buy the enormous house but cannot guarantee peace inside it. You can buy the boobs but cannot guarantee that once they’re attached to your chest you will suddenly love the woman standing in the mirror.

And before anyone takes this far too seriously, I am certainly not suggesting that we all embrace sagging breasts in the name of socioeconomic resistance. If your boobs are bothering you, fix the boobs. If you want them bigger, make them bigger. If you want them smaller, make them smaller. If you want to hoist them back toward their original 1998 position, Godspeed. Do it because you want to do it and because it makes you happy, not because you sat at a pool surrounded by women whose bodies made you wonder whether yours had somehow become incorrect. Trends are fickle little things. Apparently if you wait long enough, even your insecurities can become fashionable.

I know this because the last time I had big boobs was when I was breastfeeding my son, and let me tell you, I loved those suckers. After spending my entire adult life in an A cup, suddenly I had cleavage. Real cleavage. Movie cleavage. I was absolutely delighted with myself. I bought a red bathing suit just like one I had seen in the movies and took myself directly to the beach because I had waited decades for those breasts and I was certainly not going to waste their brief appearance sitting in my house. I showed them off. There are photographs below. Proof is important. Eventually my son stopped breastfeeding, the boobs packed their bags and left almost as quickly as they had arrived, and my faithful little 34As returned to their regularly scheduled programming.

For years I assumed they had simply returned to humble obscurity. Turns out they were playing the long game. So in the coming months, if you happen to see me walking around the pool in my bathing suit with my completely unenhanced, extremely understated, Pilates-adjacent, ballerina-inspired breasts, please understand that you are not looking at a woman with an A cup. You are looking at a woman who was simply ahead of the market.

Apparently, this is quiet luxury.

Always Have, Always Will ~ Kalie