I never talk about my breasts. Never. Really, there is nothing to discuss. I’ve worn the same bra size since eighth grade, and no, I was NOT an early bloomer. I wasn’t a bloomer at all. Occasionally you might hear me explaining that my mother, who has a decent rack, divided her boob genes between my sisters and me; Megan got half, and Charity and I had to split the other half. When I lie on my back or wear a sports bra they disappear completely. It’s my butt that gets all the attention–it certainly has no trouble being seen [from miles and miles away].
But we’ve had a few interesting experiences lately, my breasts and I, and I think you should know about them, because it’s just not all that often they get this kind of attention.
The first incident occurred at work. I was putting away the literature textbooks that my
single-celled shit-for-brains scholarly students had left lying around the classroom, and since I’m one of those people who tries to take ALL the groceries into the house in one trip, I was carrying about 10 books at once. Suddenly the four or five books on the top of the stack began to slide and I arched backwards to balance them. Apparently, the arching action caused the top books to bounce a little, and when they landed, my unfortunate left boob was smushed in the middle of the stack. Because my chest was suffering extreme trauma, I was not equipped with my typical grace and agility range of motion clear thinking abilities minimal brain function, so instead of placing the books on a nearby desk, or even dropping them to the floor, I pulled them away from my body and attempted to shove them onto the shelf in an effort to get them away, OH GOD, from my boob. As the stack of books traveled away from my body it took my boob with it. It was flattened and pulled and pinched all the way to its end, to the tiny tender part, until it finally sprung loose and retreated into my chest cavity. I haven’t seen it since.
Several days later I was awakened by my boobs. I had the distinct feeling that someone was giving me a breast exam with a nail gun. I hadn’t been dreaming of my doctor (or anything else of interest that might involve boobs and/or construction workers) so it was with great confusion that I shook myself awake. When I opened my eyes in the dim 6 o’clock light of morning I was nose to nose with my cat, and he was kneading his paws in true cat fashion, claws fully engaged, on my breasts. I thanked him kindly, explained that I had already taken care of that task for the month, thanks, and shoved him off the bed. I drifted back to sleep, only to be startled awake once more by the inability to breathe. Apparently His Highness was offended by my dismissal of his kind gesture; he had resumed his kneading, but this time his focus was my trachea. I don’t think he was trying to kill me, but I’m not so sure he wasn’t trying to knock me unconscious so he could have his way with me.
I know what you’re thinking…how sad, the only action she got in the past few weeks was from some books and a cat. I’m thinking…hey, at least someone noticed them.
I’m sorry I’ve been away so long. I’ve been a little too preoccupied for blogging, but the running commentary in my head could fill pages and pages. I’ll fill you in. I know you can hardly wait.