Big Milkers, Bad Jokes, and the Cost of Small Comments

Earlier today, I phoned a doctor to talk about my ten-year-old son.

“Does he play any sports?” the doctor asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He plays football, rugby, basketball, cricket, and netball.”

“Netball's not a sport,” he said.

"Sorry?” I asked.

“Netball’s not a sport,” he repeated.

“It is at his school,” I replied gently — not really sure why I was even explaining myself.

“Oh, I'm joking,” he said, and we carried on with the conversation.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Why would he make that comment at all? 

It had nothing to do with my son, or his health, or anything we were discussing. 

Netball is predominantly a sport for girls and women. At my son’s primary school, boys and girls both play it in an after school club. 

So what, exactly, was this doctor saying – and why was he saying it to me? For all he knew, I could have played netball myself.

And even if I shared his opinion, why would he gamble on that, with a stranger, on a phone call about my child’s health?

It was such a small thing. 

And yet it landed somewhere familiar.

A Pattern, Not an Incident

A few years ago, my husband and I took our son to see a specialist — an appointment that had taken months to get and cost a small fortune. The doctor was in his early sixties, and a noted expert in his field. 

I wore a dress to the appointment. I wanted to look professional, put together. 

My husband chose to go casual, in jeans.

I'd come prepared — done my research, and armed with a notebook full of dates and details of my son’s symptoms. I asked questions. I took notes. 

The doctor directed his attention to my husband for the entire appointment.

And when we left, the doctor shook only my husband's hand.

In the lift with my husband afterward, I said nothing. But he looked at me with sympathetic eyes and said, “I know what you’re thinking. I noticed it, too.” 

I held in my frustration and through gritted teeth replied, “If he can help our son, that’s what matters.”

Then there was the breast specialist I saw privately a few weeks after giving birth, when I developed an abscess. 

Like the previous specialist, this man was also regarded as an expert in his field, and in his late fifties.

I was in a lot of pain, and remember the doctor told me to remove my top layer so he could do the examination. I did. My husband was in the room with me.

When the doctor pulled back the curtain, his eyes went straight to my chest and he exclaimed: “Wow, you've got some big milkers!”

This is a man whose entire specialism is breast health. Whose patients are predominantly women. 

His opening line to me, in front of my husband, was a comment on the size of my breasts.

And those are just some of the examples from the last decade.

I have a lifetime of them.

When I was 22, fresh out of university, buying my first car with money I’d earned myself — the car salesman directed every question to my boyfriend. 

“What are you looking for? What's your budget?”

 My boyfriend, to his credit, redirected him: “She's the one buying the car — ask her.” 

But these comments start even earlier than that.

As a young girl excelling in math, I remember asking my male teacher a question about an algebra problem that was on the chalkboard.

“You don’t really need to learn math,” he began, “because you’re a girl…and your job is to stay home and do laundry.”

I was a 12-year-old who loved math – until that moment.

"You're Overreacting"

Individually, these moments can seem small. Trivial, even. Women who object are often told they’re reading too much into things, that it was just a joke, that they should let it go.

But these aren’t isolated incidents. 

They’re not even rare. I read an article just this week from another journalist describing the same experience — sexism at the car dealership, as a single woman, in 2026. 

A lot of women earn their own money. They make decisions for their families and themselves. 

If you want to earn their respect and trust – or sell to them – don’t ignore them, make sexist jokes, or comment about their bodies.

What It Actually Costs

Here’s what strikes me most, looking back at all of this: the netball comment changed how I felt about that doctor, instantly. I was seeking advice from a medical professional, looking for expertise and reassurance.

Instead, I felt wary. Distrustful. 

The doctor had an opportunity to build rapport – and one throwaway comment hit like a landmine.  

And that, to me, is where this becomes more than a personal grievance. 

It's a communication failure that has a cost.

A joke that doesn't read the room doesn’t just fail to land. It actively costs you something: trust, credibility, future business.

Understanding your audience — who you’re speaking to, what matters to them, how your words will land — is the foundation of any good professional relationship. 

Humor can be a great way to connect, but not everyone is funny — and a comment that feels harmless to the person making it can feel like something else entirely to the person receiving it.

So here’s what I'd ask: before you make the joke, before you offer the offhand comment, think about who’s in front of you. 

Think about what you’re really saying, and to whom.

Because the impression you leave behind might matter more than you think.

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Beth Collier loves writing, pop culture, and doing mental math.

She also loves helping companies, leaders, and teams improve their communication (and creativity and leadership) through consulting, coaching, and workshops.

Her clients benefit from Beth’s global corporate experience, Midwestern practicality and enthusiasm, and an endless supply of pop culture references.

To find out how Beth can help you become a more confident, creative, and compelling leader – or improve communication in your company – visit www.beth-collier.com or drop her a line at beth@beth-collier.com

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