People love to warn you about what you’ll miss when you’re abroad: family and friends, cable, CTB, linguistic fluency or the ability to take a hot shower without waiting an hour and wasting half a pond-ful of water. But of all the things I thought I’d be homesick for, I never thought my own chest would be one of them.

It’s been 21 days since I’ve last seen my breasts. By the time this column is printed, it will have been a month since the world, including myself, will have had more than a passing glance at my chest, neck, shoulders, upper arms, legs and about 3/4 of my collarbones.

This may give the unfortunate impression that back in the States I dress like a big trashy ho, sporting low cut tops and popping out nipples a la Janet Jackson. While I’d argue this isn’t the case (albeit for one journalistic inquiry about cleavage made last year), I definitely have never been so aware of them or their MIA status, until they went undercover.

Like I mentioned last time, revealing shoulders, chest and leg is considered super-scandalous here (in Nepal, if you haven’t forgotten already). Not particularly news-breaking information: it seems that in most “restrictive cultures” with serious ideas about female modesty, boobs, legs and shoulders are the first to experience the hidey-ho.

Exhibit A: For the first time, I’m ready to break out a v-neck sweater. At school, I’ll keep it classy with a cami underneath; here I figure if I layer two camis and pull one up super high to keep the breast and chest still hidden, I’d be okay. After asking my Nepali roommate — who serves as older sister, tour guide, entertainer and translator — if I’m acceptable, she quickly surveys me, shakes her head and then climbs up onto a chair to pull one of my scarves off the dresser and tie it around my neck. Once everything is covered and no skin is exposed, she deems me acceptable. “Going out without the scarf is fine, but when we’re in school, we need to respect our professors, okay?” Without meaning to, she makes me realize not only am I behaving like a slut, apparently, but a disrespectful and potentially mentally-impaired slut.

Exhibit B: Going out one night, I ask an American friend if I can pull off a tank top, because I am getting really sick of the monochrome Gap tees, and frankly, miss the Ithaca days of tights and sweater dresses. He sort of shakes his head at me and sighs. “Yeah, it should be okay, but why risk it?”

Exhibit C: Dancing at a bar, as I admire Nepali men, who, from my limited experience, are a hell of a lot more respectful of personal space than the sum of any American, British, European or Israeli minus the lecherousness and inability to understand the words (or hand signals) for “get your hand off of my ass, jackass,” I notice a Nepali girl showing cleavage and shoulders, which I point out to friends as evidence. Though they humor me, I’m sure they all do the inward eye roll. After all, it’s just a tank top, why should it matter either way?

We (women folk) fought partly — so I hear — for our right to wear whatever we want without being judged, stared at, stereotyped, or harassed. I spent most of my middle/high school years arguing with my parents about my right to show a little cleavage or leg now and again without disrespecting myself and/or the family name. It’s a fight we’ve had since our mamas burned their bras, and since then, we’ve taken to saying, “Screw what our parents or American society says about us showing off our chests or legs, we have a right to miniskirts and bikinis and even leggings and dresses/shirts without being judged or harassed or taking the risk that at some point we’ll end up in a courtroom with the jury saying, well, she asked for it, didn’t she?”

But it’s different when it comes to culture. It’s the old “When in Rome” adage, come back to bite me in the … well, if I said breast, that would be a little overkill, don’t you think? Is it right of us to feel that being in another culture makes that supposed step backwards okay?

In a word, yes.

But when you extend this argument to other issues, it’s not as simple.

Exhibit E: In an episode of the long gone but superbly awesome Jack and Bobby, the professor-mom gives some impassioned but ignorant lecture on how anti-feminist scarves and bhurkas are, only to have a Muslim student turn the tables and argue that instead it’s American women, products of advertising and low self-esteem, who objectify themselves by showing so much skin. Heavy handed, for sure, but the point carries over.

After all, it is a hell of a lot easier to say screw cultural relativity, things like genital mutilation or stoning a woman to death are seriously f’d up. To overlook human mistreatment, be it woman or whatever, is not OK, regardless of cultural politics. But using women’s mistreatment as a reason for why a culture is evil or backwards or what have you, is exploitative in itself. There is a difference between defending human rights and deliberately flouting a cultural norm to uphold some shaky principal of “I should be able to wear whatever I want and not be deemed a slut.”

Our choice to dress revealingly is, I think (if you’ll humor me enough to mass psychologize Western Women) one big old F You to every person who might ask, “Aren’t you cold in that?” in a fake, judgmental voice, or every guy who might ask his friend, “Bro, did you check what she’s wearing? You can so easily tap that!” You might say it’s also a subconscious plea for attention, and I’m not sure I’d completely disagree. When in the States, I fully support the right to bare arms (and chest and legs).

And as for my sunlight-starved breasts? I’m not going to leave this pretty by saying, showing less skin makes me respect myself more, or its really what’s on the inside that counts, or whatever other apologisms I could think of. It’s a challenge, and an entirely trivial one, but it drives me crazy, along with this weird new paranoia about walking around alone by myself at night, or talking to men I don’t know … fears that probably would serve me better at home. I haven’t quite figured out where I stand on the line between self-assertion and cultural respect. Luckily, if I fall on the wrong side, my roommate will most definitely be there to retie my scarf for me and make sure I’m presentable.

So, sorry girls. I’ll see you in three months.